


Flap and Throttle

by Jay_eagle



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blow Jobs, Douglas!whump, EMDR, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Frottage, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Violence, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, h/c, martin!whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 101,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a prompt on the meme.</p><p>"Martin is raped by some security guards in the airport. One of them takes a video and posts it on the internet. It goes viral.</p><p>And that's how Douglas found out."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flap and Throttle

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'ed, so apologies in advance if there are typos - comment and I'll alter any you spot. I should also confess to not being a Russian speaker and to committing the heinous crime of simply using Google translate to harvest vocab - anyone with better knowledge who spots linguistic abuse, feel free to correct me and I'll change anything that doesn't ring true. 
> 
> And concrit welcome - this is my first time writing for this fandom so I hope I've captured the spirits and voices of the characters well enough.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful cover art created by Axolotl/Skygosh/Artgosh


	2. Warning Lights

“Teas? Coffees?” Arthur burst into the flight deck.

 

Douglas raised an eyebrow. “Shockingly, Arthur,” he drawled, “in the – hmm – seven minutes since you last asked us whether we required any caffeinated beverages, our needs haven’t really altered.”

 

“Any chance you’re just trying to get away from Carolyn back there?” inquired Martin. “Or is it Herc that’s the problem?”

 

Arthur smiled a little awkwardly. “Herc’s asked me to practice my – er – delicacy – when he and Mum are spending time together. Very nicely of course – it’s brilliant that he’s given me something to work on!" His beam became broader still.

 

Douglas' voice was disbelieving. " _Really_ , Arthur?"

 

"Yeah!" Arthur sounded as excited as ever, though a light blush coloured his cheeks as he went on. "Of course, I did think at first he meant I needed to be more graceful, but once Mum explained to the ballet school that I’d signed up to the beginners’ class by mistake, it was all fine. They were _really_ nice about it.”

 

An unbidden image of Arthur in a tutu flashed across Martin’s mind and he looked up, exchanging a glance of barely suppressed hysteria with Douglas.

 

"Gosh," Douglas commented as his eyes met Martin's, amused sarcasm evident in his tone. "It really is a shame that the flight deck's so cramped – I'm sure your pirouette would be _quite_ the sight to behold." He grinned, enjoying the steward's slight discomfiture.

 

“You can sit in the jump seat for the rest of the flight, if you like, Arthur,” Martin interjected, before Douglas could really get going with the ribbing. “We’ve only got 10 more minutes and then we’ll begin the descent into Riga.”

 

“Brilliant!”

 

* * *

“Post landing checks complete.” Douglas leaned back with a colossal yawn and stretch, almost bumping his hands into GERTI’s ceiling.

 

“Grand.” Martin sleepily flipped over another sheet of paper on the cockpit clipboard, burying his nose into yet another checklist.

 

“Do you want me to stay with you while you wait for the engineer?” Warning lights were showing on the hydraulics unit again, and the time-honoured method of percussive maintenance routinely employed by both pilots on GERTI’s overactive hazard warnings had for once not resolved the problem.

 

Martin raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristically generous offer, looking up in surprise – in time to catch Douglas glancing at the cockpit locker, where he knew his co-pilot had stored several cases of what looked suspiciously like baked beans, of all things, pre-flight. “No, don’t worry, I can handle it. You’ve got a _friend_ to meet, after all.”

 

“Your choice. My friend Boris ought to know the engineers here – I’ll see if I can get you bumped to the top of the list.”

 

“Thanks.” Martin yawned. “I’ve got that much paperwork to get through, anyway – I may as well stay onboard until it’s finished.”

 

Douglas raised a hand and left, leaving Martin alone in the darkening flight deck. The sounds of the other four clattering off the plane gradually faded from his hearing, even Carolyn’s chiding of Arthur for something or other melting into silence. He turned back to the forms, entering the details requested with the care and absorption typical to anything he undertook. So much had he got caught up in his own check-box-filled world that he failed to notice the entrance of the heavyset man right behind him until a large hand squeezed his shoulder, making him leap out of his chair in shock.

 

“Sorry! Sorry!” A vaguely insincere apology, Martin thought; the man was smirking at him, as though he’d enjoyed making him jump out of his skin.

 

“No problem – are you the engineer?”

 

“ _Da_ – My name is Leo – Boris said you had problem with your hydraulics?” The cool, Russian-accented voice evoked unfair memories of James Bond movies, a thousand baddies stroking white pussycats, evil plots, conniving and cruelty.

 

 _Don’t be so racist,_ Martin chided himself internally. “Yes – the warning light’s flashing.”

 

“I’ll take a look.” The man flicked his eyes over Martin, almost appraisingly. “Will you stay onboard?”

 

“Yes – still got a couple of things to finish up here.” The man - Leo - nodded, leaving him to go out to tend to the wing, an icy blast of night air chilling Martin through his thin shirt as the exterior door opened and closed again.

 

Martin didn’t understand why he suddenly felt protective of GERTI. In actuality, he had nearly finished the papers – why didn’t he just leave? It was something about Leo’s fishy-eyed stare, he thought, the way it slid over him, his plane. He didn’t trust him. Unless it was just the accent. It must just be the result of a childhood’s conditioning – Russians = villains. _Stupid, Martin_ , he told himself off. _The man’s probably doing Boris a favour – and you – and all you can do is fall back on crummy clichés._ He turned back to his paperwork, shaking his head.

 

Half an hour later, the sound of the door alerted Martin to Leo’s return.

 

“Can you try starting her?” he asked. “I think I got it, but I want to check.”

 

“Of course.” Martin turned to the instrument panel and flicked the switches to bring GERTI to shuddering life.

 

“Ah, good.” Leo leaned forward, casually gripping Martin’s shoulder as he pointed. The warning light was gone. Martin flinched, causing Leo to withdraw his hand. Martin looked up, feeling guilty at the wounded look on the engineer’s face.

 

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Your hand – cold, you know.”

 

Leo laughed. “It’s freezing, out there. What do you say – enough to _chill the balls off a metal monkey_?”

 

“Close enough,” Martin smiled. _See,_ he told himself _, he’s being really friendly._

 

“Good! I don’t get many chances to practice my English – it’s mainly Russian flights through this airfield.” Leo was still standing awfully close to him. “In fact – I’d welcome the chance to chat some more. We’ve got a bar on the airfield – should still be open.” He hesitated, seeing Martin open his mouth to refuse. “Come on, Captain – in fact I think your first officer is there, with Boris.”

 

“Douglas is there?” Martin asked, fighting an indefinable uneasiness coiling its way through his abdomen.

 

“Sure! And Boris is great guy – you’ll love to meet him, I’m sure. And then after we’ve had a drink, we’ll sort you out a taxi back to your hotel. You can’t say fairer than that.”

 

Still Martin hesitated, unsure of what to do. The next day’s flight with their return load of cargo – both legal and, knowing Douglas, illegal -wasn’t until the evening. Herc and Carolyn were taking the opportunity to explore the city tonight and tomorrow and he’d easily be in hours if he went along now... Shifting uncomfortably under Leo’s intense gaze he nodded, swallowed. “Just a quick one – then I really do need to get back.”

 

A smile split Leo’s face, but didn’t improve it. Too many teeth – almost – wolfish – Martin shook himself. _Ridiculous_. “Great! Well, let’s go,” Leo clapped him warmly on the shoulder.

 

Leo led him through the darkened airport buildings. Martin hadn’t realized how late it had become. He surreptitiously checked his watch and sighed. 2100 hours; this better had be a quick drink. Maybe Douglas would be ready to leave when they got there. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time that Douglas had decided to socialize with the local crews until late into the night – after all these years of flying, tourism wasn’t really his thing, whereas male camaraderie, one-upmanship, and the opportunity to make new ‘friends’ – usually with attendant future ‘business’ prospects – definitely was.

 

So absorbed was Martin in thoughts of Douglas that he failed to notice that he and Leo had gone through a door that seemed to delineate the boundary between the public and the private areas of the small airport. Whilst at first there had been the odd sign of life in the buildings they were walking through – a light on here, a fluorescent-jacketed worker there – they were now in a breezeblock-built corridor, with damp trickling along the edge of the floor and blank doors periodically pockmarking the walls. Leo stopped at one of the featureless entrances, turning to grin that same, predatory grin at Martin.

 

“Welcome, _anglichanin_!” He opened the door. Martin followed him inside.

 

It was quieter than Martin had expected – he’d anticipated an atmosphere similar to that he’d found during his short tenure at The Flap and Throttle, raucous, laddish, relaxed… This was a small room, with what looked like an intense game of cards going on in one corner and two airport security guards propping up drinks on an old cargo container in the other. The susurrus of quiet conversation halted as the two of them walked in and Martin felt himself being looked over by multiple sets of enquiring eyes. Feeling desperately awkward, he tried to furtively look round to see if Douglas was tucked away somewhere. Before he could spot him, conversation resumed at the card table, none of it in a language he could comprehend, and Leo drew him forward to where the security guards were sitting. They hadn’t gone back to their quiet chat, but rather stood to greet Leo as he approached.

 

“ _Dobryy vecher,”_ one said, casting a glance over Martin’s uniform before looking him in the eye.

 

“Err – Hello?” Martin stammered.

 

Leo rescued him. “Martin, this is Gvido-“ A strong hand shot out and grasped his – “and this is Arnolds.” Another, very firm handshake for Martin. “Martin speaks no Russian, boys. He’s here to help us practice our English.”

 

A look of what Martin would normally have taken to be amusement passed between the three men. He would usually have opened his mouth and snapped back at them, always highly sensitive on the subject of being teased, but something held him back. He felt as though he was missing something, something important. And where was Douglas?

 

“Sorry,” he said instead. “Leo, you said my First Officer was here?”

 

Leo nodded, turning back to Gvido. “Gvido – have you seen _Gospodin_ Richardson?”

 

Gvido smirked. “Ye-es,” he drawled. “I believe your Mr Douglas has stepped out with Boris momentarily to look at a new… present that Boris has for him.”

 

“Typical,” Martin grumbled. Douglas could be ages, and he was so tired – and these men were looking at him so oddly…

 

“But he left a message for you, Captain,” Arnolds spoke up, interrupting Martin’s train of thought. He was shorter than the other two men, with very light blond hair scraped greasily back from his forehead. He had a distinct paunch upon which he rested his drink while he spoke. “He asked if we would entertain you during his brief absence – he’s bought you a drink, look. And one for you too, Leo.” So saying, he uncorked a glass bottle that had been resting by his feet, smiling warmly at Martin.

  
Before Martin could object, Gvido had hopped down from his seat and strode round the container, bending to snag two new glasses from inside it. Leo immediately sat down on the stool Gvido had vacated, motioning happily to Martin to pull up a chair. Martin dithered.

 

“Do you know how long he’ll be? I’m tired – I think I’d prefer to go back to the hotel – you said something about a taxi?” Leo looked crestfallen and Martin’s overactive guilt drive immediately activated. “Well – m-maybe just one drink, then,” he said reluctantly, which seemed to bring inordinate pleasure to his three new acquaintances for reasons he couldn’t understand. He was much more used to his presence in a bar being the cause of discontentment and discomfort. Maybe he was a hit in Eastern Europe. Maybe these men just really liked to hear about life flying planes. That would be it – how could ground workers resist hearing about life in the skies?

 

Feeling a little happier, he tentatively took a sip from the rather dusty glass that the tall, burly Gvido had handed him, and choked. The raw spirits burned his throat and he tried desperately not to cough, turning his eyes away from Arnolds as the fat man instantly topped up his only marginally diminished glass. Gvido nodded approvingly as he took another sip and Martin sat up a little straighter. It would be one in the eye for Douglas when he came back and found him sitting, chatting happily with his friends, fitting in… So thinking, he relaxed a little and asked Arnolds about his day job, not really listening to the answers, focusing on Douglas’ anticipated reaction to finding him comfortable in this circle of what really were _men’s men_.

 

Martin couldn’t say when this burning need to impress Douglas had become one of his driving motivations in life. At first, it had been quite normal – after all, Martin always had a deep-seated need for praise, recognition, no matter who he was with – but gradually, he had begun to realise that Douglas’ opinion mattered to him more than anyone else’s. He really cared what Douglas thought; whether it was of his skills as a pilot or of his interpersonal relations, his capabilities as a man. Perhaps (though he’d never consciously admit it to himself) it was envy of everything Douglas represented – so authoritative, smooth, attractive to all who met him, confidence personified – perhaps it was now that Martin counted him as probably his very best friend. Whatever the reason, he didn’t want Douglas to think of him the way he probably really did – the timid, prissy, pernickety little squit who was sitting in the captain's chair that he, Douglas, had more of a right to occupy. And so Martin gulped the drink, listened to the rough voices of the men, speaking Russian – or was it Latvian? – interspersed with the odd English phrase, inviting his participation, asking his opinion, enticing him to share jokes he didn’t really get but laughing with them, all the while thinking _Douglas, where are you? See me. I fit. I’m here. I’m waiting._

Martin had stopped really noticing the number of times that Arnolds had topped up his glass. Didn’t remark on the fact that he was the only one of the four being fed from that particular bottle. Failed to observe the increasingly frequent lapses in conversation from the card players, then their silent exit from the room as the night drew on. His head was swimming pleasantly and words tangled in his mouth, the spirits sour on his tongue and his vision soft-focused around the edges. He’d stopped laughing; stopped wondering about Douglas, even. Blurrily, he realized that he was supposed to be going home – tried to interrupt Leo’s heated discussion in Russian with Gvido to ask about a taxi, but Arnolds hushed him, told him it was rude to butt in. _Mustn’t be rude._

 

He absent-mindedly threw back the last swallow from his glass – choked it down, coughed. That last bit tasted different. And had there been something solid in it? The remains of something. Had they played a joke on him? At school the boys had made him swallow a ladybird. This felt a bit like that – roundish, smooth…

 

“Gvido – Gvido? Was there- wuzzere a ladybird in my glass?” he slurred. “Gvido.” He grabbed the other man’s sleeve, lurching forward as he did so and nearly plummeting off his stool. Leo caught him, put his arms round Martin’s shoulders, eased him back. Leo’s chuckle was very close to his ear, all of a sudden.

 

“Dear, dear, Captain,” the voice purred. “We’ll have to look after you.”

 

“S-sorry,” Martin mumbled. “Bit s-stronger than’m used…” _See, they’re not baddies… nice Russians… La-vians…_ _Need to go’ome…_ “D’glas?” And then, he thought, he fell. Down, down, down, darkness rushing in until the last pinprick of light that was his consciousness mercifully deserted him.

 


	3. Ignition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before, Martin's back on GERTI. But what's happened to him?

“Martin? … Martin?”

 

“Wuzz goin’ on?” Martin croaked. He cracked his eyes open, and daylight hit his retinas so abruptly that he cursed and flung his hand over his eyes.

 

“Did you actually fall asleep on GERTI?”

 

Who was that? Smooth, smarmy voice… male… narrowed it down to two possibilities… “Herc?”

 

“Got it in one. Are you alright?”

 

Martin tried to focus as crashing noises accompanied by the sound of their beverage trolley’s squeaky wheel announced the arrival of Arthur and Carolyn.

 

“What on Earth is going on?” Carolyn’s loud voice caused him to wince and flinch away. “Martin? Whatever have you been doing?!”

 

“Wow, Skip, did you have a sleepover on GERTI all by yourself? You should have invited me, I’d have brought marshmallows!” Arthur beamed.

 

“No – I…” Martin’s tongue felt drier than the Sahara had looked when they’d flown over it to land at Douz. “I’m still on GERTI?”

 

“If this is a renewed effort to save MJN money, I’m all for it,” Carolyn snapped. “But that will only work if you first inform me of your intentions so I can cancel the hotel room that _I_ booked for you to make use of.”

 

Martin rubbed his eyes, adjusting to his surroundings. He was on the flight deck. The paperwork he’d been completing lay on his lap, neatly filled out, apart from the last page, where a long black pen line scarred the page. The pen lay on the floor. “I must have nodded off.” He felt sick, muzzy. “What time is it?”

 

“Nearly noon!” contributed Arthur. “You must not have got Mum’s text – the cargo’s more urgent than they originally thought. We’re getting more money as long as we take off in the next half an hour!”

 

“Speaking of which,” Carolyn grumbled, “I still see only one of two lazy, lazy pilots. Where’s Douglas?”

 

“Douglas?” A memory sparked somewhere in the back of Martin’s head. _I was just asking that… wasn’t I?_

 

Taking in his still confused expression, Carolyn groused further. “Useless. For goodness’ sake. Wake yourself up. File a flight plan. We need to GO.” She turned on her heel. “Arthur – make yourself useful. Track Douglas down this instant.”

 

“OK!” Arthur fled the flight deck in his usual, chirpy fashion, followed by Carolyn. It took Martin a second to realise that Herc remained standing there, gazing at him.

 

“You never answered my question, Martin,” his voice rumbled, still a touch of amusement lingering under the concern. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah… fine.” Martin blinked, hazily. “Must’ve been more tired than I thought.” He wasn’t fine. Nausea was curling his tongue. Moving to wrap an arm round his stomach, he winced as what felt like liquid fire flashed up his spine.

 

“You’re positively green. Maybe you’re sickening for something.” Herc’s eyes scanned him. “Would you like me to file that flight plan while you get yourself together?”

 

“That would be really, really helpful,” Martin rasped gratefully. “Cheers.”

 

“No problem – Carolyn’s and my sightseeing plans have all gone to pot now anyway. I may as well make myself useful.” Herc grinned. “Go and throw some water at your face, or something!” He clapped Martin on the shoulder in his usual, we’re-all-captains-here way.

 

“GET OFF!” Martin had shot backwards into the console, cringing away from the contact. An icy, shocked silence flooded the cockpit as Herc froze, his hand still extended in empty mid-air where Martin’s shoulder had been.

 

Embarrassment churned in Martin’s gut. “Sorry – sorry.” He tried to smile, knowing full well that the expression was falling well short of his eyes. “Caught me by surprise.”

 

Herc made an attempt to smile in return, clearly still taken aback. “No – no problem. I’ll make myself scarce.”

 

“Do, please.” Douglas’ sardonic tones sounded from the doorway.

 

Herc glanced back, distracted. “Ah – Douglas. I was just heading to file the flight plan.”

 

“Then, by all means, please – to quote Carolyn – go and be somewhere else.” Herc left the flight deck, with another swift glance back at Martin, who was staring blindly out of the windscreen, his expression unreadable.

 

“ _Martin._ ” Martin snapped free of his reverie, not quite meeting Douglas’ eyes. “What’s this I hear about you sleeping on the plane?”

 

Martin could hear the tone of ill-concealed merriment bubbling under Douglas’ question. A new twist of sickness curled in his guts, and it took everything he had not to throw up on his co-pilot’s shoes. “I’m tired, Douglas. Not in the mood.”

 

“Come now, surely,” Douglas slung his jacket over his seat, mirth written over his features. “Our illustrious Captain, sleeping with GERTI in his off-hours? Are we to expect a happy announcement any day soon?”

 

Martin barely registered the teasing. “Going to be sick,” he groaned, and flung himself upright. He’d intended to bolt for the loo, but on standing he had to grab the seat behind him with a moan of agony. A stabbing pain gripped the base of his spine, roaring up… surely it couldn’t be from his _arse_?

 

He had no further time to consider what was going on. He bolted for the toilet, every step sending fire through his muscles, not hearing Douglas’ bewildered exclamation behind him. He retched, but just about made it inside and slammed the door, before hurling his guts down the tiny bowl. The world went dim, greying before his eyes, and he vomited a second time.

 

“Martin? Martin!”

 

Someone was hammering on the door, a million miles away. Martin gasped, drool stringing unpleasantly down his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing as his wrist flexed. Bewildered, he drew back his sleeve. An unfamiliar dressing, white, clean, new… How did that get there?

 

“Martin!”

 

Gasping again as pain flared inside him, Martin slowly stood up and opened the door. Douglas was outside, all trace of humour gone from his face.

 

“Are you OK?”

 

“No,” Martin shook his head. “I think I’ve got… the flu.” It was the only thing he could think of that might explain the bone-deep ache inside him, the sickness… _And down there?_ He hushed the momentary flash of terror inside him.

 

“You’re not fit to fly.” Martin shook his head, wincing as fireworks seemed to go off inside his brain, ricocheting a sharp ache from temple to temple. “Good job it’ll take us less than three hours, then. I’ll operate back alone. You curl up in the back, if you like – I’ll get Arthur to grab you some blankets.” All Martin could do was weakly acquiesce, allowing Douglas to draw him forwards out of the tiny plane toilet. He stumbled slightly over the edge of the doorway, lurching forwards, throwing his hands out instinctively towards Douglas. His sleeve slipped back up his arm.

 

Douglas caught him easily, grabbing both wrists, making Martin hiss as Douglas’ thumb closed round the dressing he’d just noticed. “What’s this?”

 

 _Can’t say I don’t know._ “Cut myself… on the cargo container. While it was loading.”

 

“ _Honestly_ , Martin. It’s just not your day, is it?” Martin mutely shook his head, allowing Douglas to usher him gently into a row of empty seats. “You stretch out here. I’ll let the others know what’s happening.” Douglas strode off, ducking his tall frame through the plane’s exterior door and out into the weak sunlight.

 

Martin scrunched his eyes shut. He had never felt so ghastly. All he wanted was for the world to go away and let him slip back under into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

The flight passed in a sickening blur. Carolyn managed to restrain Arthur’s most OTT efforts to help Martin, meaning he only had to fend off four cups of tea and the offer of a hot – or at least, lukewarm – serving of sweet and sour pork. When they finally landed, Martin’s nausea was beginning to settle, though his throat felt unpleasantly raw and he seemed to have cut the inside of his mouth somehow. He probed the tiny wound with his tongue, and tasted the rich, iron tang of a droplet of blood.

 

“Would you like me to drive you home?” Douglas asked, emerging from the flight deck, as Arthur and Carolyn saw to the unloading of their new cargo outside.

 

“I’ve got my van here…”

 

“You are in no state to drive. You still look as though you might pass out at the wheel.”

 

Not in the mood for an argument, Martin nodded reluctantly and shakily made his way outside, the usual Fitton light drizzle chilling him as it dribbled weakly down his collar. It must be the cold – and the hunger. Yes, that was why he’d be trembling. Nothing else.

 

* * *

 

Martin managed to persuade Douglas not to accompany him into his house. He’d been in Douglas’ house once, and the thought of his First Officer seeing the squalor of his accommodation – the sparseness of his meagre possessions – made him feel sick all over again. He tried to sound cheery as he waved Douglas off – _silly old me, going and catching the flu at the most inopportune time_ – but the smile slipped from his face the instant the Lexus pulled away from the kerb.

 

Now that the first shock of the pain had dissipated, Martin had been able to try his best not to show it, purposefully not limping, not flinching and wincing as he would have liked to. He recoiled from the idea of the pity his visible suffering would have engendered, especially in Douglas. It would be the same as him seeing his shabby, spartan room: Martin would NOT be pitied. But now that Douglas had gone, Martin allowed himself to slump forwards, doubling almost in half, groaning at the pain radiating through his groin and up his back.

 

How he made it to his room, Martin never knew. Up three flights of stairs, mechanically placing one foot in front of the other, every step sending vicious jabs of hurt through his body. He’d never, never had flu like this…

 

With a relieved gasp he dragged himself to his futon, lowering himself on to it. Normally he’d never think of lying down in his uniform – one shouldn’t crumple the _Captain’s_ jacket, after all – but he felt too enfeebled to think of doing anything else. _What had happened?_ He tried to cast his mind back to the previous night.

 

“I was on GERTI. I was doing the paperwork,” he muttered to himself. “The warning lights were on… the hydro was out.” Douglas hadn’t mentioned any problems with the hydraulics during the flight today. Had they been fixed last night, then? Martin groped for memory, but to no avail. It was as if a cloud of perfect, impenetrable fog covered his recollections.

 

Wracking his brains was making his head hurt even more. How could he still feel so tired? Must be the flu, this fatigue, making him feel like he’d been headbutted by a stampeding rhino. He gave up the unequal struggle and allowed his eyes to slide shut into a hazy, muddled sleep, unconsciously fingering the mysterious dressing on his wrist as he slipped under.

 

That was the first night that Martin had bad dreams.


	4. Take off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas receives an email that's equal parts worrying and intriguing.

Three weeks later, Douglas stepped through his front door at the end of a long, long day. Stretching, he allowed his flight bag to drop to the floor of his hallway with a satisfying thud as he toed off his shoes and flexed his stiff neck from side to side. It had been a very trying month so far. Martin had been off for a whole four days with the flu – enraging Carolyn as she’d had to make awkward excuses to Mr Alyakin and cancel one of his flights to Antibes, weakening her story that MJN was fully equipped with relief pilots. And since Martin had been back – well, Douglas knew the flu could take a while to get over. But he’d never seen the captain looking this thin, this pale, this… almost ghost-like in his pallor and lack of interest in life.

 

It was driving Douglas mad. For the first week he’d made allowances – of course Martin would be fatigued and a bit under the weather while he got over the bug, but _really_. It had been a good two weeks since he’d been fit to be back at work. For the last four trips, he hadn’t left Martin alone – keeping up an incessant barrage of needling teasing and word game proposals just in order to break the spiraling silences that filled the flight deck these days. Martin certainly wasn’t making it easy – he constantly seemed to be somewhere else mentally, gave monosyllabic answers – and yesterday he’d failed to tell Douglas off for chatting with Carl over the radio.

 

For goodness’ sake – even _Arthur_ had noticed that something was up. Now, rather than his usual effervescent bounce into the cockpit, he would sidle in like a kicked puppy and leave as quickly as possible once he’d taken drinks orders. Martin was being _selfish_ , damn it – much as he might tease Arthur, Douglas had a good deal of time for MJN’s favourite steward, and hated seeing him made to feel uncomfortable or uneasy. Why else would he have taken such vindictive pleasure in getting the better of Gordon Shappey in St Petersburg? It certainly wasn’t solely for Carolyn’s benefit.

 

Douglas wasn’t sure what annoyed him more – Martin’s attitude, or (and he was loath to admit this to himself) the fact that he was beginning to really, really worry about the captain. Much as he might grouse occasionally to his crewmates about his own decline in fortunes since being given the boot from Air England, he did very much enjoy coming to work at MJN normally – Arthur was endearingly stupid, Carolyn was a worthy adversary, and Martin – well, he’d never met a better straight man or object of playful mocking. But this new, serious, hollow, tormented-looking Martin – well, that was something wholly alien to Douglas’ experience.

 

Sighing heavily, he made his way into the kitchen, looking wistfully at the wine rack – once so full of discerningly chosen reds and whites, now home to spare bottles of cooking oil, squash for his daughter and an old, likely very flat bottle of cider even an ex-alcoholic like him couldn’t be tempted by.

 

He made himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen island, pulling his laptop towards him. Seeing the squash had made him think of Verity, and he wondered whether at this time he might catch her on Skype (trying to avoid her homework). The machine whirred into life and he logged in, trying not to get his hopes up – justifiably, as it turned out.

 

“No, that would be too good,” he grumbled, seeing her name listed as ‘offline’. He pondered momentarily; he really didn’t feel hungry yet, and nor did he fancy sticking the TV on – he had a feeling that once he collapsed onto the sofa he wouldn’t feel like budging again to cook. Perhaps he’d waste some time online before making a start on dinner.

 

A quick scan of the BBC news headlines revealed nothing particularly of interest – civil war in Eritrea, the Minister of Education making yet another statement seemingly purposefully designed to get the nation’s teachers to rebel en masse… Aha. He hadn’t checked his emails for a few days now. He was of the generation where it still hadn’t become universal second nature, and although he did have an MJN account (proudly listed on Arthur’s all-singing, all-aeroplanes-dancing website) he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of actually relevant messages he’d received via that medium since joining Carolyn’s airdot – one bonus of working for a company with but four employees meant that the email traffic to keep up with was pretty much zero.

 

Navigating to webmail, he logged in, fully expecting his inbox to read its usual tally of ‘0 unread messages’. But he was mistaken. Glowing in bold type at the top of the page, dark text informed him that he had one new email. _Probably spam_ , he told himself, but clicked through to view it anyway.

 

It wasn’t normally in Douglas’ cool nature to outwardly express surprise, even when he was on his own, but the sender of the new message caused him to take a sharply indrawn breath. And the subject line… well, this was sure to be interesting, if nothing else. He opened the email:

 

_Subject: Turn and turn about_

_Sender: Gordon Shappey_

_Message body:_

_Dear Douglas,_

_Gordon here. You’ll remember our meeting in St Petersburg a few months back, of course. I'm sure you’ll be pleased to hear that it’s troubled me ever since: no one usually bests me, but you proved a particularly capable opponent. Happily, I’m delighted to say I’ve stumbled – purely by accident – on a way to repay you_ _for what happened last year. To my amusement, it appears that Russia has taken her own revenge on MJN – or at least on an element of your operational capabilities. You can imagine my satisfaction in sending you the following link._

_Happy viewing._

_Gordon Shappey_

Douglas’ eyebrows had climbed higher and higher while he’d scanned over the brief message. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he muttered. Knowing Gordon, if he clicked on that link, he’d simply expose his laptop to a virus or bug of some kind. His first instinct was to hit ‘delete’ and try to forget he’d ever read the email. But something was holding him back. Was it the sheer smugness radiating from the message? Or was it the words being used? Logically, Gordon must feel that he held some sort of trump card over them. And he hadn’t struck Douglas in their brief meeting as any kind of technical genius. His methods of retaliation would be blunt, hard – not the sly, sideways style of attack that a computer virus would represent, if Douglas was any judge of people.

 

He hesitated a moment longer – but then, “Better the devil you know,” he said aloud. He clicked the link.


	5. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pay heed to trigger warnings - this is where it gets graphic and non-con-ish, folks.

A new tab opened in his browser and a page began to load. It was styled to look a bit like the YouTube pages his daughter sometimes navigated to in order to show him the cat videos she inexplicably found so entertaining. The ‘happy viewing’ line of the email was explained, then – whatever Gordon was gloating about was clearly depicted in this video. There were stats below it; Douglas scanned them, absorbing that whatever this was, it looked popular – 120,000 views already, and it looked as if it hadn’t been up long – only the last (Douglas counted) 16 days.

 

The video finished buffering, and began to play.

 

It was film, shot in a dark room. Three men stood topless in front of the camera, each wearing a mask of some description, covering their hair, eyes and noses, but leaving their mouths unobstructed. One of them began speaking, in a language Douglas didn’t know – though given Gordon’s email, he’d have bet his house that it was Russian. Surely Gordon didn’t assume he could understand this?

 

Focusing on what he could determine from the picture in front of him, rather than the words, Douglas assessed what he could see. The three men looked relaxed, at ease – jokey, even, as one playfully punched the other on the arm. The tone of voice of the one speaking was light, occasionally seeming to amuse the other two. What Douglas couldn’t fail to remark on, however, was the atmosphere of suppressed excitement. There was clearly an undercurrent of meaning that he was missing… what could it be? Absently, he began mentally running through his list of contacts to try to come up with a Russian speaker who might translate, but before he reached any possibilities, the scene changed.

 

It looked as if the men were still in the same room – it was dark round the edges and Douglas couldn’t make out the walls. There were lights, but they were all trained on – was that a cargo container? – in the centre of the room. One of the masked men now stood at the head of the container, which was positioned so that the length of it stretched away from the camera, apparently positioned on a tripod at its foot.

 

While Douglas rapidly absorbed the new set-up, the sound of muffled voices camera right alerted him to something happening off-screen. What it was was quickly revealed: the other two men were carrying something in to place it on the cargo container. No- not some _thing_ – some _one._ A very naked someone, identity similarly concealed due to the black cloth bag draped over his head.

 

Douglas sighed condescendingly. If Gordon expected him to be traumatised just because he’d been sent some rather explicit and – from the looks of it – extreme pornography, he would be disappointed. Douglas didn’t often watch porn, not particularly caring for it, but did Gordon really think he was such a naïf as to not be aware that such things went on in the world? He’d show the man. He’d watch it to the end, no matter how unpleasant – and then he’d send an email to _Mr_ Shappey radiating smugness and triumph in return. That’d show him.

 

On-screen, things were progressing. The naked man was now stretched out on top of the container, feet towards the camera, so that the viewer had a perfect impression of his lean, sinewy body stretching up towards where the first man stood at his head. The other two had taken up positions either side of the container, so that they were level with the supine man’s arms. They were each bent over his wrists, and Douglas realized that they seemed to be fastening some sort of cushioned cuffs to him to hold him loosely to the box upon which he was laid.

 

Once he was bound to their satisfaction (Douglas guessed for visual effect; there didn’t seem to be any fight to the man, whose only sign of movement was his head flopping lazily from side-to-side), the action began. One of the masked men, a greasy-haired blonde guy Douglas instinctively named ‘Fatso’ for the paunch spilling unpleasantly over his black trousers, leaned forward and began to gently, sinuously stroke the naked man’s cock while the other two looked on.

 

The action seemed to stir the man to life a little more and he began to moan, thrashing his head with a little more force. He appeared to be trying to raise his hands in the air, but restrained by the cuffs all they could do was flap uselessly and paddle at the air, reminding Douglas of the gasping of a landed fish, for some reason. There was something of a similar futility to the movement, perhaps.

 

Fatso’s stroking was having an effect; not just on the bound man’s cock, which was filling and hardening even as Douglas watched, but also on the men in the room. Both of Fatso’s companions had hands stuffed down their pants, intense gazes fixed on the action before them. To his embarrassment, Douglas realized that his own excitement was mounting and he was half-hard in his boxers; he thanked the stars that Gordon would never know that in his youth he’d had certain… proclivities towards male companionship himself. In fact, he felt a little curl of triumph – Gordon had most likely assumed he would be repulsed by the man-on-man action, but he wouldn’t win that way. Douglas was nothing if not a man of varied tastes, and there was something so mouth-wateringly appealing about the naked body stretched out for the camera – an impression that despite his extreme slenderness that there were whipcord muscles shifting beneath the pale skin, the taut stomach concave beneath the heaving ribs, with that now gloriously hard cock curving up towards the belly button…

 

The man hadn’t ceased thrashing his neck from side to side – perhaps in mounting arousal, it was impossible to tell with the bag covering his features. Till now, the heavyset man at his head (or ‘Burly’ as Douglas began to think of him) hadn’t made a move to prevent him, but at a particularly convulsive wriggle, he seemed to decide enough was enough. With a clear smirk to camera, he raised his hand to reveal that he was wearing black leather gloves. The next second, he plunged his arm down and clamped his fingers firmly around the naked man’s throat. Douglas felt the strangled gasp uttered by the man right in his very core – he could clearly see the chest heaving for breath, the fluttering of the tied hands seeming to try and grab oxygen from the air with his fingertips. Burly held the choke for an apparently nigh-on-unbearable length of time, throttling and throttling till Douglas was sure the bound man must be on the point of passing out – his convulsive struggles had certainly weakened almost to nothing – but finally the masked figure released the neck and laughed as the naked man panted for air inside the bag. Douglas had heard of breath play (though never tried it himself) and could imagine the intensity of the feelings rushing through the man’s stretched out form. Almost unconsciously, he reached down to undo his fly, wanting to ease the trapped sensation in his trousers, softly sighing as he took his own cock in hand. He wouldn’t get off on _anything_ Gordon sent him, but there was no sense in being uncomfortable.

 

Fatso appeared to have finished teasing the bound man for the time being, turning his attention to his own prick which was clearly standing to attention in his trousers. This pause allowed the third masked figure to step forward, coming more into the light for the first time. His torso was the most defined of the mysterious trio, a six-pack now visible as he leaned forward over the hip of the object of their attentions. At first, Douglas thought he was going to echo Fatso’s actions and try and make the man come all over himself – at the thought, Douglas felt his own balls draw up just slightly and a shiver of pleasure run through him – but it seemed that Muscles had other ideas. He ran a rapid finger from root to tip of the man’s furiously hard cock, and then back down again – but his finger didn’t stop, drawing two swirls on the testicles before reaching back even further and pressing _in._

 

Douglas’ eyes narrowed. _There was no evidence of lubrication_ – even as he thought it, the naked man cried out brokenly. Was it one finger or two being used? Either way, it sounded as though it hurt. And the masked men had all laughed at the moan – more Russian banter being exchanged between the three of them. There was such dissonance between the light-hearted tone of their voices and the whimpering of the man on the container that Douglas winced – the lack of empathy jarred, and he felt a stirring of sympathy for the pale figure caught between the three. Still, he must be being well paid for this – or maybe he was getting off on being so submissive. The hooded man was still hard, just about – his erection appeared to have flagged a little at the pain, but Fatso had noticed and (to Douglas’ relief and shamed slight pleasure) had once again taken it upon himself to minister to it, setting a rhythm of hard, fast strokes that had Douglas’ cock aching in frustration.

 

Meanwhile, Muscles was still working his hand in and out of the sub's passage, eliciting more whimpers. He made a show for the camera, stretching and pulling the hole wider and wider until it was clearly ready to take three fingers. At that, though, he stopped and stepped back. Seeing this, Fatso also disengaged, releasing the once-more diamond-hard cock he’d been playing with. It was clear that something was about to happen, and Douglas thought he could guess what…

 

The camera angle changed. Now the recorder was hand-held, apparently by Fatso, as only Muscles and Burly were still in-shot. Both had their own cocks out, each fisting them in a leisurely, unhurried fashion, and for once, the man on the table had fallen silent and lay completely still. Part of Douglas detachedly registered relief at the absence of the pathetic whimpers the man had been making; Douglas had never found pained submissiveness a particular turn-on. The rest of him, though, was focused on the beautiful body spread out on camera for the viewer's delectation. It really wasn't surprising this hooded figure, whoever he was, could apparently make a living through porn - he was stunning, all lean muscle and (Douglas' shaft twitched in his grip) a truly beautiful cock, flushed and thick where it curved stiffly from the nest of russet curls at his groin. Douglas drank in the sight, ignoring the masked men whose presence did very little for him, concentrating instead on the illicit delight of appreciating such a fine specimen of erotic manhood for the first time in years and years.

 

Suddenly, Muscles grabbed the man’s hips and yanked him down the container, the cuffs meaning that his wrists stayed behind and pulled his arms above his head whilst his bottom came to rest at the very edge, at perfect groin-level for Burly. In one rapid movement, Burly grabbed the man’s ankles and pushed them high into the air, whilst simultaneously shoving forwards and _in_ with his cock. The man keened as he was penetrated, making Douglas wince. _Please God let there be lube._

 

The camera moved round to get the between-the-legs shot so beloved of porn films. Douglas could see Burly’s cock, pistoning in and out hard and fast, balls slapping the pale, skinny arse of the man bent in half before him. To his relief, Douglas observed the slick glistening of some form of lubricant that indicated that – at least for this part of the proceedings – the men had given a thought to the safety of their plaything.

 

The plaything in question now seemed to be sobbing, but it was a peculiar noise; it was almost slow-motion weeping, the soft cries sounding dazed and drunken. Just as Douglas was trying to focus on the oddity of the sound (partly in order to stave off his own, shameful arousal), Burly pulled out with a gasp and stepped aside. Perhaps it was over… no, of course not. Muscles had leapt eagerly forward. It was evidently his turn.

 

If anything, he was even rougher than the first man had been. Rather than holding the bound bottom’s legs together, he held them wide, wide apart till Douglas could only imagine the aching pain in the split hips and pelvis – and of course that wasn’t enough. He too pounded into the man, shoving himself forward over and over.

 

Almost dreamily, the camera floated round the improvised table, taking in the whole scene from the point of view of the head of container: the cuffed, hooded figure of the pale man moaning, the muscular top, indecent excitement and sick pleasure evident in his every move, forcing the rapid pace of his thrusts deep inside. And the heavyset guy just behind him, his eyes fixed on the action, jerking himself off to the tempo of Muscles’ vicious shoves, breathing hard and almost grinning beneath his mask.

 

Douglas didn’t think it was possible for the video to get even rougher, but then –

 

“N-n-n-argh!” The man on the table had begun to wail, an odd, sleepy quality to the sound. A hand instantly shot out in front of the lens, heavily punching what must be the side of the face covered by the hood. There was a dull thump as the hit connected and the scream ceased, strangled.

 

“ _Dostatochno!_ ” Obviously a command, judging by the imperative tone in which the burly man rapped it out.

 

“ _Karasho,_ ” responded the camera operator, almost affably, stepping back away from the body, which was jerking involuntarily due to the force of the thrusts pounding into him. Very softly, perhaps so as not to attract another hit, Douglas could hear small slurry cries being made under the hood. Slightly sickened, he realized he could make out words… not Russian words, either. Was that – _English_? But surely this film had a Russian script? Perhaps this was to sell the show internationally...

 

Douglas was confused, but the sight before him was so distracting - things were coming to a head, literally. Panting, Muscles had pulled out of the prostrate man, who was unable to suppress a renewed moan at being left hollow after being so thoroughly, savagely filled. Douglas knew what would happen next, and felt his cock harden again in spite of his bewilderment. He grasped himself firmly.

 

Muscles stepped to the side of the bound man, still breathing heavily, his hand now moving so fast on his own erection that it was almost a blur. Douglas’ cock twitched in sympathy and without thinking, he began to jerk himself rapidly towards completion. Just as he felt his own arousal begin to peak and crest, Muscles came with a shout – some sort of Russian expletive – and coated the man’s chest with stripes of his release.

 

Burly wasn’t far behind; he bent over the man, one hand tugging at his prick while the other grasped what must be the man’s chin under the hood. Thick, pearlescent come spilled from him, spurting over the black cloth as he panted in ecstasy, throwing his head back so that the tendons in his neck stood out. Douglas’ balls ached, his own cock practically leaping in his hand, simultaneously horrified and electrified by the debasement Gordon had – for some reason – desired that he witness. But he would not come. He would not allow Gordon that.

 

Judging by the shaking of the camera, Fatso wasn’t far off his own climax. He’d moved down the side of the container, to come to a halt between the naked man’s legs. Angling downwards, the film took in his purpling cock, being fisted hard and fast in the pudgy hand. It didn’t take long before the inevitable happened and Fatso came with a wail, a disgustingly wet, drawn-out sound that heralded the coating of the man’s still-gaping arsehole with streaks of come. Some splashed up onto the man’s testicles before sliding down, glistening in the harsh lights – and to his disgust and shock, Douglas suddenly came himself, shuddering as he unexpectedly spilled into his own boxers, sick pleasure thundering through him at the sight of the utter degradation in front of him that somehow had turned him on so completely by its maleness, its dominance, its utter forbidden-ness…

 

He came down with a groan, feeling really sickened at himself. Gordon wouldn’t know, at least. Gordon had probably expected him to recoil in horror – at least he’d got some pleasure out of it. Cold comfort, but still.

 

Absently, he returned his gaze to the video, which was still playing, somewhat to his surprise. Not that he usually watched much porn (perhaps that was why he’d found it so irresistible, he mentally reassured himself) but he’d been under the impression that films normally cut off once everyone had had their fun – and as soon as the fucking had started, he’d made the assumption that the tied-up man wasn’t going to be allowed to have any release – the earlier cock-teasing had obviously been just that, teasing with no hope of completion. But things were still happening.

 

The cushioned cuffs were being removed, the man yanked back up the container and the camera evidently replaced back on its tripod at the foot. As soon as his hands were free, the man drunkenly coiled them in on himself, moaning brokenly. _He's certainly milking the submissiveness_ , Douglas sniffed, scornfully, trying to feel superior.  _Hammy acting if ever I saw it_.

 

Fatso, who had been unbuckling the right wrist, grabbed at the arm again, calling off-camera – presumably to Burly, who wasn’t any longer in-shot. Grinning, he looked back down at the wrist he was tightly gripping, and subtly twisted it so that the back of the hand faced the camera. Light trickles of blood streaked down the arm from a cut on top of the man’s wrist, obviously caused by the chafing of the cuffs as he’d struggled. Douglas winced – that had to have been painful. Perhaps the man's moans weren't so melodramatic after all. He abruptly recalled the initial lack of lubrication for the fingering with a pulse of queasy guilt.

 

Burly had stepped back into view, tugging the man’s hand away from Fatso. Tersely, he slapped something white on to the arm, pressing in to the cut, which sparked a hiss from the still-hooded man almost cradled between the three masked individuals.

 

A spark of memory suddenly flickered in Douglas’ mind, startling him. As the man pulled his arm free, turning it in to his chest, he revealed the dressing that had just been placed there, clean, new… why should that bring on such a sense of déjà vu? Douglas studied the picture with renewed intensity. Burly was bending over the naked, abused man once again, feeling his triceps muscle – surely they’d done enough, now?

 

It was the reflecting glint of a light on the syringe that alerted him to what was about to happen, seconds before the needle pinched into the man’s arm. Slowly, Burly slid the plunger home, dispensing the clear fluid into his body. Douglas hoped, for his sake, that it was some form of painkiller – an uneasy memory flashed before him of the bruised (though thankfully not obviously torn) arse that Fatso had come all over.

 

It appeared that his guess was correct – or at least in the right area – as the man almost immediately became floppy and pliant, his harsh breathing shallower than before. Douglas suddenly perceived that it wasn’t the first dose he’d received that evening, judging by the drunken quality of the moans that he’d emitted during the – oh God. It was rape. Gordon had sent him a rape, and he’d jacked off to it. It wasn't doms and sub - it was attackers and victim... He’d let Gordon win. He’d never been more ashamed in his entire life.

 

As cold horror pooled in his guts, he reached out to stop the video, to slam the laptop shut, to stumble away from what he had done. But there were just 20 seconds left – he paused, his hand in mid-air. Watched as the three men finally propped their victim into a sitting position, still obscenely naked, defenceless. Saw Burly fumbling with the hood, the final disgrace, to reveal the man’s shame to the world – he knew he should look away, but he was hypnotized…

 

Everything happened as if in slow motion. The hood tugged upwards, revealing a trickle of blood dribbling from the mouth. The nose. The slackened, unseeing eyes, still half-open and gazing, drugged, down the camera. The shock of tumbling ginger hair. _Martin’s_ hair. _Martin’s_ face.

 

Douglas heaved sideways, and vomited.


	6. Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is found - and confronted - by Douglas.

Martin flicked through the operations manual, trying to find a passage to engage his attention. The uncomfortable chair that formed the only place of relaxation in his attic room was digging uncomfortably into the base of his spine, but he avoided shifting position almost instinctively – three weeks after that inexplicable night, by reflex he avoided doing anything that might spark that stabbing pain again. It was fast becoming a subconscious habit – holding himself unnaturally still so that the flashing hurt didn’t trigger the cascade of worry that he knew he was barely keeping at bay.

 

Aha – here was a possible paragraph that he didn’t yet know by heart. He began to attempt to memorise a subsection of the Safety Management Systems chapter. His eyes skimmed over the words, mouthing them as he read in an effort to commit the content to memory. After a few seconds he realized that he was simply saying the words without retaining the meaning, and with an angry sigh returned to the beginning. This time he got one line further before he noticed again that his attention had drifted. What was the matter with him? Since when had he – _he_ – not been able to focus on the ops manual? Frustration seared within him and he leaned forward to throw the book aside – which triggered a convulsive flinch as one of the chair’s dodgy springs caught him and shot a sharp ache through his behind.

 

He threw himself upright. Granted, the pain – down there – was lessening gradually, but not fast enough. He would not think about it, _he would not_.

 

Martin strode over to his hotplate and flicked it on. He’d make dinner, that’d distract him. He gingerly bent over to grab a saucepan, allowing himself a moment’s relief that that, at least, didn’t cause him any pain any more, before straightening and carrying it to the sink in the corner to fill with water to boil.

 

The tap squeaked painfully as he twisted it and cold water began to dribble reluctantly into the pan. Sighing, he watched it fill, knowing it would take nearly a minute. Unthinkingly, he allowed his gaze to wander, looking up – and caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink.

 

The sight nearly made him take a step backwards. _That can’t be me, surely._ The face staring back at him was whitest white – pallid, with bruise-like shadows in the bags under the eyes. His hair, normally strictly controlled, tumbled all over and every which way – he must have been running his hands through it, as he always had when distracted. The man in front of him looked – well, _ill_.

 

Martin didn’t feel like dinner anymore. He shut off the tap and left the pan in the sink. Casting an angry glance at his uncomfortable chair, he stepped over to his bed, flicking the hotplate off again on the way – but hesitated. Chances were, if he lay down on the futon, he’d be unable to prevent himself dozing off, and he did not want to sleep. He knew if he did then he would dream, and the dreams he was having were… distressing, to say the least. The one last night, for instance…

 

_He couldn’t see. There were rough, unkind male voices all around him, but everything was black. They were laughing at him… Alien hands were caressing him, but he couldn’t see their owners. He wanted to scream, to run away, to disappear, but the hands wouldn’t let him – and from stroking, they suddenly began to slap. To stab. Not just his sides – in intimate places, places he most desired to protect, to hide. He wanted them to stop. It hurt. Why wouldn’t they stop? He’d tried to speak, to shout, but his voice wouldn’t penetrate the blackness… the pain was crescendo-ing, breaking inside him like a tsunami. Something warm, hard, horrid, was rupturing him, splitting him open so fire shot to his very core… He opened his mouth to wail – and screamed and screamed and –_

 

Woke himself up, moaning.

 

He winced as the memory of the dream ran through his head again. Every night, every night for three weeks now. No wonder he looked so wan – he was barely getting four hours sleep a night these days. Arthur and Douglas had lost patience with him, he knew – but let _them_ try existing on so little rest and see how _they_ acted at work.

 

Avoiding the futon, he stumbled into the corner of his room. There was an old chest of drawers there – if he leant against that, surely he’d be too uncomfortable to nod off. He sank down into a crouch, steadfastly ignoring the resultant twinge in his hips and hindquarters, and rested his head sideways against the wall. The plaster felt blissfully smooth and cool under his cheek, and he allowed his eyes to slide closed. He would just sit here for a bit – let his mind go blank – not think about anything –

 

He was disturbed by voices on the landing outside. Someone was calling him – but why? The students barely acknowledged his presence usually.

 

Martin stood up to answer, just as there was a knock at the door.

 

“Come in,” he called, loudly enough for the visitor to hear him.

 

The door opened and Maria, one of the vet students, poked her head in. “You’ve got a visitor at the front door.”

 

“I’m not expecting anyone.” Martin was bewildered.

 

“Claims he works with you – tall man, looks rather upset. He said it was urgent.” Maria paused and Martin dimly registered she was waiting for a response, but the befuddlement he felt prevented him answering. He stared blankly to her left, unable to understand quite what was going on. She continued. “Want me to show him up?”

 

“Douglas? _Here_?” Martin muttered, horrified at the thought of Douglas’ inevitable teasing over his accommodation were he to catch a glimpse of it. “No – I’ll come down.” Something Maria had said suddenly struck him. “He looks upset?” He followed her down the stairs.

 

“Shakier than a leaf in a thunderstorm. I asked if he was alright, but all he said was that he needed to see you. Hope everything’s OK.” She gave him a quick smile and disappeared into the shared lounge. Martin strode down the hall, anxiety suddenly filling him, startled out of his self-absorption for the first time that month. Had something happened to Douglas? To Carolyn? Arthur? He yanked open the front door.

 

Douglas looked up at Martin. Maria had been right, he looked dreadful – wild, almost, though he appeared to make an effort to smooth over his expression when he saw that Martin was at the door. He almost smiled, then seemed to think better of it, instead giving a terse nod of greeting. Martin was baffled.

 

“Douglas? What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

 

“Martin. Can I come in?”

 

 _No – you can’t see my attic!_ “Now’s not a good time… is everything all right? Are you OK?”

 

“I’m fine,” rapped out Douglas, sharply. He took a deep breath. “I just… need to talk to you.”

 

“Talk.” Martin couldn’t let him in, couldn’t let him see… his mind flashed uncomfortably over the scruffy rug, the ancient furniture, the pizza boxes on the stairs.

 

“I – I can’t really discuss it on the doorstep…” Douglas hesitated as Martin made no sign of moving aside. He stepped closer. “ _Please_ , Martin.” He put a hand out, to pat Martin’s arm – but before the captain could consciously register the movement, or Douglas’ hand even make contact with him, Martin had shot backwards.

 

“Don’t _touch_ me!” He stopped, heart thundering. What was the matter with him? He shook his head. Douglas had frozen, arm still outstretched – like Herc had, that morning – _No_.

 

“Sorry,” Martin stepped forward, onto the step, pulling the door behind him. He couldn’t meet Douglas’ eyes.

 

Douglas shifted, uncomfortably, then seemed to come to a decision. “If you won’t talk here – can I drive you back to mine?” Martin still hesitated, and Douglas looked at him appraisingly for a moment. “Martin – I need you. Your help.” 

 

Martin’s shoulders slumped. “You need _my_ help? Since when?” But he stepped forward further. Without another word, Douglas turned and led the way back to his car. As if in a dream, Martin followed him.

 

* * *

 

 

Ten minutes later they had pulled up outside Douglas’ beautiful detached house, the Lexus’ tires crunching softly on the gravel. Silence had largely reigned between the two men on the drive over – at first, Martin had tried to guess aloud what Douglas could possibly be needing, but beyond assuring him that Carolyn, Arthur and GERTI were all perfectly all right, Douglas would not be drawn.

 

Martin caught Douglas shooting him a sideways glance as he put the handbrake on. A surge of anger suddenly shot through him – honestly, what was going on? Probably all part of some silly scheme of Douglas’ – if he needed Martin to move fishcakes, or help him get rid of those tins of baked beans – Muttering internally, he grumpily followed Douglas into the house. So absorbed was he by his inner rant, Martin failed to notice Douglas’ hand shaking as he unlocked the door, didn’t observe him breathing faster than usual, as if under some terrible stress…

 

“Come into the kitchen,” Douglas invited. “Can I get you a drink?”

 

“Tea, please,” Martin replied, irritated bemusement showing in his tone. Getting out of the car had made his hips ache again, and he was trying to ignore the twinges as he walked. Douglas nodded, heading for the kettle.

 

“I’ll get the milk.” Martin turned towards the fridge, but stopped short. “Douglas?”

 

Douglas turned round; Martin was staring at the floor by the kitchen island. He looked up, confusion filling his face.

 

“Is that _vomit_ on your floor?”

 

“Shit.” Douglas grabbed a newspaper from the worktop, using the pages to blot the mess. He wouldn't look at the captain, the line of his back tense as he mopped the floor. With a shot of apprehension, Martin noticed that Douglas' hands were shaking.

 

“Are you ill?” Martin was scared, now.

 

“No – no,” Douglas stood up, threw the sodden paper in the bin. “I’m sorry – I was a bit… upset, before I left – I forgot...“ He ran his hands agitatedly over his head. "I forgot that that had happened. The - the sickness, I mean." He still wouldn't meet Martin's eyes.

 

“Oh God.” Martin sat down heavily in a kitchen chair, idly pushing aside Douglas’ closed laptop as he did so. “You’re not drinking again.”

 

It was a statement, not a question, but Douglas answered it anyway. “No, I’m not.” He seemed to give up on the tea, abandoning the mug empty on the worktop. Slowly, he turned round, gaze fixed on the floor. Martin stared at him, but he didn't look up. “Martin – why didn’t you tell me?” The question was mumbled, reluctantly.

 

There was a pause. “Tell you what?” Martin's brain felt as if it had frozen.

 

Douglas blinked – took a step towards the captain. Still wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

 

“You should have told me that you were… attacked.” The words were tremulous, Douglas' voice shaking slightly. 

 

Martin had gone very still. _What does Douglas know?_ _What don’t_ I _know?_ He hesitated again. “What… what do you mean?”

 

Douglas drew his breath in sharply. He finally locked his stare with Martin's, Martin unable to understand the agonised expression on his co-pilot's face. His stomach was churning in fierce terror, the agony and confusion of the last three weeks peaking in his chest. Douglas stepped even closer, stretched out a hand, but didn't touch. _  
_

“Why didn’t you tell me – tell any of us – what happened in Riga?” At the word Riga, Martin stiffened. He knew he'd gone white. He couldn't think - couldn't speak -

 

Douglas pressed on, looking more hesitant and frightened than Martin had ever seen him. His voice was so quiet, Martin had to strain to hear it. “You were raped, Martin. _Raped._ And you never said.”

 

Martin had frozen. His mind was totally blank. A rushing, thundering noise filled his ears… Douglas’ words, spinning in midair between them. It couldn’t be. That hadn’t… he wasn’t… Douglas reached out further, tried to take his hand – Martin snatched it away, bolted to his feet.

 

“You – you –“ Martin didn’t even know what he was trying to say. _It’s a joke._ Douglas’ hand still grasped for his.

 

“Fuck you!” spat Martin, and bolted for the back door, across the kitchen. Fumbling with the key, he managed to turn it, wrenched the handle open, and fled out into the blackness of the garden.


	7. Night flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas and Martin in the dark - literally, figuratively...

Douglas remained rooted to the spot for just two seconds, unable to parse Martin’s response. The first time he’d ever heard his buttoned-up co-pilot curse. The first time he’d felt true venom from Martin directed at him.

 

Then he was up, and chasing after his friend, dashing out through the door. His garden looked enormous, stretching out into the dark. Martin’s first instinct, to flee through a side gate, had apparently been foiled by the padlock chaining the latch to the gatepost; he’d turned and as Douglas hastily emerged into the chill slap of the night air he raced past him, bolting along the fence line, apparently looking for another exit. Douglas was reminded of a rabbit he’d once seen being pursued in a field by a greyhound, twisting, turning, flipping directions in a desperate, futile escape attempt. He remembered the rabbit’s shriek as the dog’s teeth had finally met with a snap in its warm, quivering centre – unearthly, hideous, pained… Martin’s “Fuck you!” had resounded through him in much the same way.

 

Shaking himself, he jogged after Martin. “Martin! Stop! Please!”

 

Martin appeared to have reached the far end of the garden; Douglas could hear him stumbling in the dark – the light spilling from the house’s windows didn’t penetrate this far down his lawn. He called again: “Wait! You’ll hurt yourself!”

 

The sound of snapping twigs and disturbed bushes paused. Douglas made the most of the hesitation, speeding up towards where he’d last heard the noise, at an advantage on his literal home turf.

 

As he got closer, he would later swear he could physically feel the tension rolling off Martin in waves. The captain was breathing hard, panting sharp quick puffs of air in and out, so despite the lack of light Douglas could find him easily. There wasn’t any moon; clouds had obscured it, and Douglas’ eyes strained to make Martin out, even standing right next to him.

 

Great. He had caught up to him. Now what?

 

“You can’t get out this way,” he breathed, after a second. “I’m afraid – it’s all locked up, back here.”

 

“So I was gathering.” Martin’s voice was icy, shaky.

 

Silence hung. Neither of them seemed to know how to proceed. Darkness pressed in from every side, hiding facial expressions, body language. Douglas felt utterly lost, in a country he should know, but rudderless, without hope of a guide. _I have to say something._

 

“Are you OK?” _Stupid question._ “Sorry.”

 

“Why are you sorry?” The retort was aggressive, threatening.

 

Douglas blinked. “I… upset you.” Silence again. “That wasn’t my intent.”

 

“No.”

 

“If you want to leave… I’m afraid you’ll have to go back through the house.”

 

Douglas felt, rather than saw, Martin stiffen beside him. “I don’t want to go back.”

 

“OK.” Douglas tried to keep his voice neutral, not show surprise. _Dare I press?_ “What should I do?”

 

Martin let out a quivery, humourless laugh. “Things must be dire. The great Sky God, asking lowly, stupid me what to do?”

 

Douglas was stung. “Martin. You know that’s not how I think of you.”

 

“Do I?” The question dangled in the air. A sigh. “I know. It’s just how I feel, in comparison.”

 

Douglas hesitated. Honesty, not always the best policy. But in this case… “I’m… really worried about you.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“You don’t have to apologise.”

 

“I swore at you.”

 

“You’re not the first person to do so.”

 

“I wasn’t expecting – I mean, you took me by surprise.”

 

“I can imagine I did – I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to ask, and I’m worried, and I’m not very good at –“

 

“Stop it.”

 

Douglas skidded to a halt. Martin was trembling again, he could feel his arm lightly shaking against his as they barely brushed each other in the darkness. He seemed to be drawing himself up, gathering the courage to say something.

 

“Say it again. What you said, back in the kitchen.”

 

Douglas paused. “I said… I said, Martin, why didn’t you tell us… that you were…”

 

“Raped.” The word sound cold, dead.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’ll laugh.”

 

“Do you think I’d find something like this funny?”

 

“You should.” A long, long hesitation. “Because… I _don’t know_.”

 

“You don’t know?” Douglas tried to keep the bewilderment from his tone. “You don’t know why you didn’t tell me?”

 

An exasperated sigh, that for a moment sounded exactly like normal, frustrated Martin, reprimanding his co-pilot. Douglas suddenly cottoned on.

 

“You don’t remember.” _An image, of the needle sliding home into the pale, white muscle_. Douglas felt sick.

 

“No.” Martin gave one, hard, full-body quiver, then seemed to force himself to hold still, spitting out words as though they were poisonous. “I was on GERTI, doing the paperwork. You all left. Then – nothing. Blank. Then – I was being woken up by Herc, on the flight deck. But…” he paused again, breathing deeply.

 

“Yes?” Douglas prompted.

 

“But… I _hurt_.”

 

Douglas made a convulsive movement, as if to grip his arm, but thought better of it. Bile rose in his gorge, but he swallowed it down.

 

Martin still stood by him, in the dark, expression unreadable, waiting for him to respond.

 

“You were raped.”

 

Martin spoke again, hollowly, as if to shove the word away, divert it. “How did you know? Why… why today? That was three weeks ago…”

 

The dreaded, dreaded question. How on earth could he explain? “This is going to be difficult.”

 

“More difficult than me saying the word…” Marin swallowed, spat: “Rape?”

 

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Douglas cringed. “Please… just hear me out. Then… if you want to get away – my car keys are on the table. Take them. Leave. If you need to.”

 

Martin sounded utterly confused. “What are you talking about?”

 

Douglas took a deep, deep breath. “I know what happened, because someone sent me… evidence.”

 

“What sort of evidence?”

 

“Your… attackers. It wasn’t just the attack itself that they wanted. They… Martin, I’m so sorry.” Douglas felt himself begin to shake, insides twisting, shame flooding him to his core. “They _filmed_ it. And posted it. Online. And someone – Gordon. Shappey. He saw it. He sent it to me.”

 

Martin’s breath left his body in a rush, but he didn’t say anything.

 

Douglas wanted it out, wanted the truth – some of the truth – to leave him all at once. “I couldn’t see it was you. I didn’t know what it was. Not until the end. They covered your face. Made you wear a hood. I thought he was just trying to traumatise _me_. For St Petersburg. I never dreamt that… never imagined…” His voice failed him. Martin appeared to have turned into a statue. “Martin?”

 

“You… you’ve seen…?”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Douglas wanted to howl, to sob, to fall to his knees. But in fact it was Martin that did that, just then. Crumpled to the ground, in a soft _flump_ of clothing and body hitting damp earth. Douglas flung himself down beside him.

 

“Martin.” Didn’t dare touch him. Guilt and shame and disgust swam in his head. Expected Martin to scream, to react, to hit him.

 

“I…” Martin swallowed. “I don’t understand.” A flash of anger and revulsion in his voice. “Why don’t I remember?”

 

Douglas tried to keep up, to focus solely on Martin, rather than on the guilt still searing through his own mind. “They drugged you… at the end of the film, they injected you with something.” He paused, thought it through a little further. “Did anyone make you drink anything, that night? Do you know?”

 

A long hesitation, as Martin searched his brain. “Spirits? I think… I was trying… to fit in.” Pause, again. “I don’t know. There are words… Flap and Throttle… but that’s at Fitton.”

 

At the words, another unbidden image flashed through Douglas’ mind – a gloved hand pressing on Martin’s throat, choking, the pallid, bound hands – _Martin’s_ hands – groping feebly at the air… He shuddered. Martin was continuing.

 

“It didn’t make any _sense._ ” His voice was stronger, now. “I woke up… and I hurt. But who wouldn’t remember…” pause, gulp. “Something like that?” Douglas heard him shake his head, shift on the grass. “So – I told myself… it couldn’t be true.”

 

Douglas didn’t know what to say.

 

“I didn’t want to think about it. I… But… the _dreams_.” Martin stuttered to a stop.

 

“I’m sorry,” Douglas said again, futilely, helplessly.

 

“I know.” Martin was silent.

 

They sat, side by side, on the wet ground. Somewhere nearby, a fox screamed, piercingly.

 

* * *

 

“Come inside?”

 

It felt as though an age had passed. Douglas’ question, hesitatingly posed, jerked both men out of their own thoughts.

 

“OK.”

 

They walked silently back across the lawn, the empty house looming before them, the warmth of the light spilling from the windows at odds with the mood.

 

“I never did make you that tea.”

 

“That’s alright. I… don’t really feel like it.”

 

“Me neither.” They stepped through the back door, Douglas locking it again behind them. Martin paused just over the threshold. In the light, Douglas could see just how pale he was. A minor scratch from one of the bushes had trickled a thin line of blood down his cheek. He looked as Douglas felt – nauseated, exhausted. And not happy to be back in the kitchen.

 

Hastily, Douglas gestured. “Go through to the lounge. It’s more comfortable.”

 

Martin nodded, headed out, head bowed. But he stopped dead when he got to the table, catching sight of the laptop.

 

“Douglas?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Did you really say – did I misunderstand?” There was faint, faint hope in his voice. “It’s not really posted online…”

 

Douglas’ heart sank. “I’m afraid so.” Hating himself.

 

Martin’s mouth twisted. “You asked what you could do.”

 

“Anything.” Douglas stepped towards him, hands outstretched, but Martin shied backwards unconsciously, and Douglas quickly halted.

 

“Get it taken down. Removed. Destroyed.”

 

Douglas nodded. “I promise.”

 

“Good.” Martin’s face was closed and blank. He’d retreated into himself.

 

The two of them went into the lounge. Martin lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa, and Douglas was seized with a momentary panic about where he should sit. Not on the sofa too – that looked too close. But if he sat far away, across the room, would Martin think that he was disgusted with him?

 

He compromised, and sat in the nearest, old, overstuffed armchair at the back of the room, at 90 degrees to where Martin had slumped, positioned oddly so that his weight was balanced through his hip rather than straight downwards. Douglas realized that it was an awkward position that Martin had adopted since… He tried not to take the instinctive sharply indrawn breath. Martin wasn’t looking at him.

 

“The way you’re sitting…” He tried again. “Martin, are you still hurt?”

 

Martin didn’t answer. Stared at the floor.

 

“If you’re still hurting… please. Let me take you to the hospital.”

 

Martin’s head flew up. Fear filled his eyes. “I can’t.”

 

“I’ll be with you. They’ll have seen it before.”

 

“But… the idea. Of more people knowing. What will they think?”

 

“They won’t think anything except of wanting to help you.” Martin still hesitated. “ _Please_. If you’re still in pain, we need to get you checked out. You can see that, can’t you?”

 

Mutely, reluctantly, Martin nodded. His face was devoid of emotion again, the momentary flash of fear suppressed. Douglas got up.

 

“I’ll take you now.”

 

“But, Douglas…” Martin held up a hand to stop him.

 

“What? Martin, this is really important – we need to go – I promise I won’t leave you, unless you want me to –“

 

“No – it’s not that.” Martin shifted, urgently. “It’s… the video. It’s still up. I – I don’t think I can bear it. Sitting in A&E. Knowing. Knowing that people might still be… watching…”

 

“Oh.” Douglas let all his breath leave him with a whoosh. He was fighting all his instincts to simply scoop Martin (who was, after all, so small compared to him, so slender, so – in this moment – fragile) into his arms and carry him physically to the car, to the doctors. His brain whirred for a solution. “What if… what if I put my best man on the case while we go and get you… seen to?”

 

Martin screwed up his forehead. “Which best man?”

 

“There’s only one person I know who I’d trust with something like this.”

 

“Who?”

 

“He’s got useful contacts. Two brothers. One’s a lawyer – deals with copyright disputes. The other is a diplomat, in Estonia – I think, anyway.”

 

“Who?”

 

Douglas avoided answering, anticipating resistance. “He’ll be trustworthy. He won’t ask too many questions. And…” _Most importantly…_ “He already knows something could be wrong.”

 

Martin froze. “Herc.” His voice was flat.

 

“Yes. I can understand if you’re reluctant, and I _promise_ I won’t reveal anything that you don’t want me to – but – and don’t tell him I said this – he would be better at this kind of thing than I am. And that way I can be with you at the hospital.” Douglas came to a stop, waiting for Martin to refuse, to say it was impossible, to resist.

 

But all the fight seemed to have gone out of the captain, whose shoulders were slumped. He spoke, his voice dead, emotionless. “Fine.” Douglas sighed with relief. “But – please could you – tell him. I don’t think I can.”

 

Douglas nodded. “Of course. I’ll go and phone him now.”

 

Martin flung out a hand again. “And – Douglas – please tell him that I don’t want to talk about it. And Arthur and Carolyn –“

 

Douglas finished the sentence for him. “Don’t have to know, not now.”

 

Martin sighed with relief. Douglas watched him for a second, then left the room to go to find the phone, leaving him staring fixedly at the carpet.

 

He punched in Herc’s mobile number and waited for him to pick up.

 

“Douglas?” Herc’s surprised voice filled his ear.

 

“Herc. Are you with Carolyn?”

 

“I’m at her house, as it happens. But she and Arthur have gone out to walk that ridiculous dog of theirs. Do you want me to give them a message? You haven’t tried calling them, have you?”

 

“No,” Douglas replied. “I have a favour to ask you.”

 

“A favour?”

 

Douglas could anticipate the stream of jokes about to begin and spoke rapidly to forestall them. “Please listen – and for now, I’m going to ask you not to say anything to Carolyn. Or to Arthur. Something’s… something’s happened.”

 

Tense silence from Herc’s end. Douglas took a deep breath, and began to explain.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, Douglas walked back into the lounge, car keys in hand. Martin hadn’t moved.

 

“Ready when you are, Captain.”

 

It was the first time Douglas had used Martin’s title that night. Martin looked up at him, eyes blank. Like an automaton, he stood jerkily, and together they walked out to the car. Douglas climbed in and started the engine, waiting till Martin’s seatbelt had clicked into place before he began to drive.

 

“What did Herc say?”

 

“He’s taking action now.” The roads were quiet at this time of night, but Douglas fixed his eyes resolutely ahead of him.

 

“Do you think he’ll tell Carolyn?”

 

“I asked him not to. I said you needed the rest of the week off. I’ll cover the flights we’ve got scheduled – they’re only short hops.” Martin didn’t respond, just nodded. “Have you got any van jobs booked?”

 

“I can’t remember.” Still the same, flat voice. They drove on.

 

“If you do, Arthur and I will try and cover them. If you need us to.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Silence prevailed, each man lost again in his own thoughts, and the dark road stretched out ahead of them, disappearing into obscurity.


	8. Turbulence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolyn and Herc appear at Douglas' house.
> 
> (NB - please note the newly altered tags for triggers towards the end of this chapter.)

The next day, early in the evening, Douglas was woken from an unintentional nap by the sound of hammering at his front door. Jerking awake, he nearly fell forwards off the settee that he’d slumped across in his conservatory. At first he couldn’t make sense of where the noise was coming from, a feeling of panic racing through him. Was he under attack? What was going on?

 

As his surroundings clarified and the initial muzziness of awakening dissipated, he suddenly realized what it was. He stretched quickly and walked out into the hall. There were words mixed in with the thundering on the door – someone – a woman – was shouting his name. And he’d bet £100 he knew who it was.

 

“Douglas! Douglas! Answer this door _this instant_!”

 

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled, opening the door like a pop-gun so that Carolyn (for it was she) nearly fell through it on to his feet. Behind her, looking resigned, was Herc. “To what do I owe the… hmm… pleasure?”

 

Carolyn glared at him. “Don’t you take that tone with me,” she snapped. It was more than her usual brusqueness. Douglas detected real worry beneath her barked command. His heart fell.

 

“Do come in.” He stepped back to allow them both entrance, waving them into his lounge, which wouldn’t know what had hit it, he mused, absently. Three visitors in 24 hours? Not since Helena left him had his house been such a hive of unwanted social activity.

 

“Can I get you a drink?” he inquired, trying to convey the usual languid manner he knew Carolyn would be listening for.

 

“Never mind that.” She waved away the question. “Sit down.” Douglas did so, noting as he did that only _Carolyn_ would invite someone to take a chair in their own sitting room. “What’s all this nonsense that Herc’s just told me about Martin not coming in to work tomorrow? Or for the next week?”

 

Douglas hesitated, not sure how to answer. Just before he’d finally dropped Martin back at his student house the night – well, practically morning – before, Martin had dully assented to him telling Carolyn and Arthur what had happened to him. The bare bones of it. There was no need to burden them with the details that he was unhappily party to.

 

“Douglas!”

 

He shook himself out of his reverie. “What have you said, Herc?” he asked, playing for time, reluctantly looking over at his fellow pilot – for once, thank heavens, without the smug look that he usually wore written all over his face.

 

Herc replied “Just as Carolyn’s told you – that you rang, and said Martin would need a week off after your day off today.”

 

“Right.” Douglas gathered himself – couldn’t quite manage to continue.

 

“Douglas Richardson. I swear, if you don’t tell me _right now_ what’s been going on for the past three weeks – because yes, I know perfectly well that something’s been wrong with the boy for that long – then I will punch you. I will physically punch you on the nose. Don’t you think I won’t.” She made a small, frustrated movement towards him. “Is Martin alright?”

 

“No.” Douglas paused before continuing, licked his lips, stalling. “You’re right. Three weeks ago, in Riga, something happened.” Carolyn, mercifully, waited for him to continue rather than interrupting. “Martin was… assaulted. Sexually.” Her mouth fell open, and he could see she was about to speak. He held up his hand to stop her. He wanted to get this all over with in one go. “He doesn’t remember the attack – not at the moment. It appears his… rapists… drugged him in order to carry out their assault. And then just dumped him, back on the plane.” A flare of anger, hot, deadly, rose in his chest, before flickering back into neutrality. He didn’t dare look at Carolyn.

 

Her voice shook. “Attacked?”

 

All he could do was nod, grimly.

 

“And last night… he told you about it?”

 

Oh, Christ. The difficult, despicable, almost literally _unspeakable_ part again. “Actually, no. I got an email – from Gordon. With a link to… filmed evidence of what took place.” He picked up his iPad from the coffee table. Showed her the email he’d forwarded to Herc the previous night.

 

She read, her lips thinning into a barely perceptible line as she absorbed the callous, triumphant words her ex-husband had casually fired off. As she did so, Douglas caught Herc’s eye. Without a word, he nodded, reassuringly, and Douglas relaxed fractionally.

 

“My God,” she breathed, handing Douglas back the tablet. “He always was vindictive – always had to have the last word. Always enjoyed violence.” An unspoken question flashed across Douglas’ brain, one he knew he’d never, never ask. _Violence?_ _Towards you?_ Even more unthinkable – _to_ _Arthur?_ No. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – imagine that. There was enough to deal with right here and now, without borrowing trouble from the past.

 

Her eyes – the unshakeable, immovable Carolyn – brimmed with unshed tears as she glared at the wall above Douglas’ head, but when she looked at him and spoke again, her voice was perfectly steady. “How’s Martin?”

 

Douglas took a steadying breath. “He’s not good. As you’d expect.”

 

Herc spoke for the first time. “How was it at the hospital?” Douglas had explained to him that that was where he and Martin were headed last night.

 

He shook his head. “Awful. I never, never want to have to see someone put through that again.” Unwanted memories flickered through his brain.  _Martin’s face, white as a sheet, turned towards him, blindly. The impersonal doctors’ questions. The humiliation, utter degradation, written all over his face as he answered them. The description that_   he'd _had to give of the atrocity, blessedly in Martin's absence. The kind looks of the nurses… the single yelp he’d heard from outside the curtain during the physical examination…_

 

_Oh God, and I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t help, couldn’t make it go away._

 

He tried to continue. “The best that can be said is that he’s escaped permanent physical disability as a result of his ordeal, as far as can be told – as long as his STI tests come back clean.”

 

“They didn’t use…?” Herc asked.

 

Douglas shook his head no, revolted all over again. “He’s still in pain, but they’ve given him drugs – an ointment to help him heal…” Douglas flinched at the thought, decided that that was enough detail.

 

“How long do the tests take?” Carolyn asked, finding concrete details to fix on, as ever.

 

“He’ll have results in the next week or so, and then he needs to go back in three months to get re-tested to make absolutely sure he’s alright.”

 

“Well – that’s something. I’m glad you could… be there.” Almost soft, for Carolyn. Herc nodded his agreement.

 

“It was… like a nightmare.” Douglas tried not to let his voice crack. How could he make them understand what it had been like? _Martin’s odd, closed expression – the compulsive clenching and unclenching of his fingers. The determined glare into the distance he’d worn when they took his blood, as if set on proving that he was strong, not weak, brave, not a coward, while all the time Douglas sat there wanting to shout those things at him – You’re brave! It wasn’t your fault! – but not knowing how…_

 

“And… other than physically?”

 

He’d known she would ask. Didn’t know what to tell her. He sighed. “You know Martin. He’s trying to act as if things are fine. Sort of. He feels humiliated, I think. He hasn’t had time to absorb it yet – that’s what I suggested he do, when I left him at his place – just try to _be_ , with the knowledge.” He shuffled his feet before continuing. “The hospital offered him counseling, of course. But he needed time to think about it.”

 

“If we get the opportunity… I mean, if he brings it up… we should encourage him to consider it,” Herc chipped in.

 

“Well, _obviously_.” A little of his usual impatience with Herc crept into Douglas’ voice for the first time.

 

“I’m just saying – counseling is probably what he needs right now.”

 

“I’m sure it is. And _I’m_ just saying – there’s nothing I’m going to force Martin to do _right now_. He’s already had enough coercion to last a lifetime.” Douglas was detachedly surprised by the venom pulsing through his words, rage suddenly burning again in his chest.

 

Herc raised a defensive hand, acknowledging his point, not giving him a verbal response to snap back at.

 

Douglas paused. Grudgingly, “Sorry,” he spat out. “It was a very late night.”

 

“Quite alright, old chap,” Herc returned, easily.

 

Douglas bit back his irritation at Herc’s unruffled tone. Changed the subject instead. “One thing that Martin was adamant about, though – he doesn’t want this reported.”

 

“What?!” Carolyn exploded. “No _police_?! No _justice_?!”

 

“It’s not what he wants.” Douglas gazed at her furious expression, calmly, actually finding security in placidity in the face of her anger – no different than normal. “He says he doesn’t want to have to relive it all – not for the police, not for a court case. They asked him to consider it, but he shook his head. They’ve kept what samples they can, in case he changes his mind… but he sounded pretty certain, last night.”

 

Carolyn still looked enraged, her mouth opening and shutting helplessly. Douglas was incongruously reminded of one of Verity’s goldfish.

 

“It’s his right.” Herc placed a gentle hand on her arm.

 

“I know – I just can’t stand to think of him – the man that did it – getting away with it.”

 

“ _Men_ ,” Douglas corrected her, almost automatically, mentally cringing as an unwanted recollection of what he’d witnessed flashed across his synapses.

 

She shuddered. The correction had stunned her into silence again. Her fury seemed to stall for a moment, before refocusing. “I can’t believe – Gordon – that lowlife, that _scum_ – sent it to you.” A hideous thought occurred to her. “Oh God – what if he’s sent the same email to me? To _Arthur_?”

 

Herc spoke up. “Douglas asked me to check, last night. I went into your emails – for the first and only time ever, I hasten to add – and made sure. He hadn’t.”

 

Carolyn wasn’t reassured. “But Arthur? We can’t have him seeing this. Can you imagine the damage? It’s one thing for _Douglas_ to have glimpsed it – but –“

 

Douglas winced. He would cut his tongue out before ever, ever admitting to Herc and Carolyn that he’d done more than glimpse it – that he’d – _No, no, no_. He firmly averted his mind from that train of thought, concentrated on assuaging her panic.

 

“It’s OK, Carolyn,” he managed. "I did check that there were no obvious other recipients to the message before I even went to find Martin. And then, Herc –“

 

Herc took up the sentence. “Well, Arthur’s always leaving his computer downstairs, logged in. It was easy to make sure. That email was for Douglas alone.”

 

“Although,” Douglas broke back in. “We should forewarn him to be very, very careful about opening anything from his dad just now. Still – I think this particular bit of retaliation was just directed at wounding me. Even though of course it concerns Martin deeply too… the thought behind it – I think he sees me as responsible for what happened in Russia. And he’s right.” He hung his head.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carolyn snapped. “He got what he deserved.”

 

Douglas nodded, slowly. “That doesn’t help.”

 

She sighed. “I know. And I _will_ take legal advice about this, even if Martin won’t.”

 

“What are you going to tell Arthur?” Herc asked, stroking her wrist with a tenderness Douglas was almost shocked to see between them. He wasn’t surprised when she moved her hand after a few seconds – she wasn’t one to submit to caresses – especially not public ones.

 

“I’ll tell him… most of what you told me.” She looked firmly at both pilots. “He may act… younger than his years, but he is an adult. He will cope. We will support him. _And_ Martin.”

 

“Martin doesn’t want to talk about this. He was very explicit about that.”

 

Carolyn huffed. “I can understand that. I don’t know what I would say anyway. Will a week off be enough, do you think?”

 

Douglas shrugged. “Ask him, in six days time. Knowing Martin, even a week out of the air will be torture to him and he’ll be raring to go – or appearing to be – in a day or two. But, Carolyn –“ he fixed her with a steely glare – “I tell you now, _don’t let him_. There’s no way he’d be fit to fly in under a week. He needs _time_.” He passed a hand over his eyes, suddenly feeling utter exhaustion pervading his every bone. Unsurprising, given that he’d only managed to grab two or three hours rest in the last 36, tops. With a sigh, he added “I’ll take the flights this week – just those 4 short trips, isn’t it? All domestic. You can tell the clients that your other pilot is sick.”

 

“Or I can sit in again,” Herc smiled.

 

Douglas raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment – something which appeared to again bring home to Carolyn the exceptionality of the circumstances. She raised no objection – for her, Douglas thought, a minor miracle.

 

He yawned before he could stop himself, just managing to cover his mouth with his hand. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Was up till five… and then I couldn’t sleep, once I’d dropped him home.”

 

Again, the mental picture; _Martin limping out of the passenger seat, back towards that ghastly, scruffy house… his face still dead, white, closed off._ Catching a glimpse of his expression as he quietly pushed the door to, Douglas had been reminded of a boarded up building – all shuttered, beaten, emotionless. _Not Martin – not my captain – prideful, energetic, emphatic, passionate – please not him –_ He’d rested his forehead on the steering wheel, before recovering himself, driving off. He couldn’t let Martin see him like that.

 

He snapped back to the present. “I tried to get him to stay with me,” he told them both. “But the doctors said familiar surroundings might help, and he was adamant that he wanted to be at home.”

 

“I can imagine,” Carolyn said, wearily. “If there’s one thing they won’t have – _beaten out –_ of him, it’ll be his stubbornness.” Disgust and grief warred in her expression. She turned to Herc. “Home, I think. I need to talk to Arthur.”

 

Herc nodded in agreement as the two of them stood up. “We’ll show ourselves out, old thing,” he said to Douglas, whose eyes had practically slid shut in exhaustion. “You look like you need another sleep.”

 

Douglas didn’t demur, raising a hand in farewell as they left the room. It made him feel strangely lonely to spot that, for once, Carolyn had permitted Herc to take her hand.

 

He rested his head back against the sofa, shut his eyes. Tried to make his mind go blank – get his thoughts to stop spinning. Concentrate on the steady, calm ticking of the clock on the wall marking time.

 

He’d nearly done it – nearly slipped into dreams – when abruptly his phone vibrated hard on the coffee table in front of him, making him sit forward with a jerk. _If that’s Carolyn –_

 

He snagged it with a quick reach of his hand. The screen flashed up the name he didn’t want to see. Most dreaded. Was most scared for. He answered the call.

 

“Martin?”

 

“H-hello, Douglas.” The voice sounded weak, child-like. Most… un-captain-y.

 

“Are you alright?” Unease pooled at the base of Douglas’ spine. There was a long hesitation at the other end of the line.

 

“No.”

 

“What can I do?” Silence. “Where are you?”

 

Another hesitation, then, to Douglas’ relief, Martin spoke. “I’m at Clifton Suspension Bridge.”

 

Panic, full-blown panic, filled Douglas’ gut. “What are you doing there?” He was up, he was tearing through the house, grabbing his car keys, all thought of tiredness forgotten. He could only think of one reason why Martin would have driven 30 miles to one of the highest bridges in the South-West.

 

Martin hesitated again, but answered. “You can… probably guess.”

 

“Don’t do it. _Please._ Don’t do anything you can’t take back.” He was outside, fumbling with the keys _– why won’t you unlock?!_ Pressing the wrong buttons, finding the right one – leaping into the car.

 

“I know.” Martin sounded exhausted. “I’ve realized.”

 

“Good.” He’d started the engine. “I’m coming, alright? I’ll be there in 20 minutes, if I can. Just –“ he swallowed hard – “ _please_ , stay exactly where you are until I get to you.”

 

“OK.”

 

“Promise?”

 

A little pause, then, weakly, “Wilco.” The line went dead.

 

Douglas had never driven so fast in his life.


	9. Arrested Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas finds Martin and does his best to help.

Douglas slammed his car round a tight corner into a side-street. He’d taken a wrong turning in the centre of the city, not being familiar with Bristol, and it had cost him five precious minutes. Fortunately, the famous landmark was signed prominently everywhere, so he’d got back on track, but now – where on earth could he park? He knew he must be close… but there were no spaces, and then he was at the t-junction, and there was the bridge – illuminated beautifully, shining in the landscape to his left.

 

He turned out of the junction, on to the road that would then fly over the Avon Gorge via the bridge. Double yellows, as far as the eye could see.

 

“Sod this,” he swore under his breath. He got as close as he dared to the toll booths, about 200 metres away, then without a second thought ran his car’s wheels hard up on to the pavement. The Lexus made a scraping, protesting noise as some part of it – the front number plate? – made contact with the kerb, but he didn’t care. Glancing rapidly in his wing mirror, he flung open his door, threw himself out of the driver’s seat into the road and was off and running, wildly pointing the key remote device behind him as he raced off – not even stopping to think about whether the car had emitted its proper locking ‘blip-blip’.

 

He was so set on reaching the bridge itself, eyes fixed on the towers lit up in the sky ahead of him, that he tore right past the figure on the bench that was nearly hidden in the shadow of a leafy tree to his left, the sodium light from the orange streetlamps failing to cast any brightness under the spreading branches.

 

Martin had to call him twice before he heard, the first soft ‘Douglas?’ making no impression on the first officer’s consciousness. Every fibre of his being was fixated on getting to the bridge itself. All the way to Bristol he’d been thinking the worst – imagining Martin teetering, having to pull him back, talk him down – if he was in time at all -

 

“DOUGLAS!” The second, much louder cry brought him to a halt. He spun around, but still couldn’t see where the voice had come from. Shielding his eyes from the harsh glare of the streetlamps, he peered back the way he’d come.

 

“Martin?” His voice rose a little, a tiny sliver of hope burning within him for the first time that evening. The voice hadn’t come from the bridge parapet – nor the edge of the gorge, which was now falling steeply away some distance to his back. He strained his eyes, trying to pierce the blackness outside the lights’ illumination.

 

“Here.”

 

He followed the direction from which Martin’s voice had come, finally finding him on the bench he’d initially overlooked, set some distance back from the road in the small piece of parkland in the lead up to the bridge. No wonder he’d missed him.

 

Martin was watching him as he drew nearer – he could see the pale face turned in his direction, but he couldn’t make out the expression Martin wore in the dark. Douglas slowed slightly as he got close, wanting to try to gauge the mood. He felt a little as he had done once when approaching a frightened animal – not wanting to make any sudden movements, trying not to startle, sensing the delicacy of the situation.

 

Martin was sitting sideways on the bench, his feet placed soles-down on the seat in front of him, arms wrapped round his folded-up legs. As Douglas got nearer, he bent his head forward into his knees, hiding his face. His shoulders heaved once, twice, but this seemed to be from steadying breaths; Douglas couldn’t hear any sign that Martin was crying. Taking a deep breath himself, he decided that it was safe to sit down next to the captain – though being careful not to touch.

 

“You came.” The voice was muffled, quiet, behind Martin’s legs. He still wouldn’t look at Douglas.

 

“Of course I came.” He was at a loss what to say.

 

“Sorry.” Still from behind the legs.

 

“Martin.” No response. “Look at me.”

 

A moment’s reluctance, then only Martin’s fringe and eyes appeared, peeking just enough above his folded legs to meet Douglas’ gaze. Douglas forced himself to make his expression calm, to conceal the frantic turmoil he’d been going through not two minutes before.

 

“I told you to call, if you needed anything,” he reassured. “I’m so, _so_ glad you did.”

 

Martin relaxed the tight grip on his shins very slightly. Douglas heard a little sigh escape him.

 

 _What do I say_? “Are you… OK? Are you hurt anywhere? I mean – anywhere – new?” Cursing his own inadequacy, Douglas was nonetheless relieved when Martin shook his head. Some of the terrible tension left him, making him want to quake – he’d imagined all kinds of things on the journey.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, as gently as he could.

 

A light breeze rustled the leaves of the tree above them. It was an oddly soothing sound – one Douglas associated with open country, not the city. Martin seemed to be considering. At least he hadn’t hidden his face again. Eventually he averted his eyes, staring sideways towards the road, but answered.

 

“I’ll… try. If you have time.” A worse fit of discomfort seemed to grip the captain. “You might have something else you need to do.”

 

Douglas shook his head firmly. “No. I don’t need to do anything. I don’t need to be anywhere. _Nothing_ is more important than you, right now.” He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to make Martin feel better, or himself. At the sight of Martin’s huddled figure, guilt had again spasmed nauseatingly in his stomach.

 

Martin seemed to believe him, but apologized once more. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” Douglas reached out a hand, thought better of it. Waited.

 

“It was just… that I’d spent all day. Awake. Staring at the ceiling.” Martin screwed his eyes shut. “And by five pm, I knew… that I was about to fall asleep. And I knew what would happen, if I did.” A deep breath. When he spoke again, there was a new twist of disgust in his voice. “ _They_ would be attacking me, again. Hurting me.”

 

Douglas swallowed hard. Said nothing.

 

Martin continued. “And I can’t never sleep again. I’ll have to nod off, sometime. I can’t escape.”

 

Douglas tried to keep the quiver out of his voice. “Was that when you came here?”

 

“Yes,” Martin replied, too hastily.

 

Douglas, ever-practiced at reading people, caught the lie. “No.” Martin shifted uncomfortably at the contradiction. “There was something else.”

 

Wordlessly, Martin nodded.

 

“Can you… tell me? That is – you _can_ tell me, if you want.”

 

“Fine,” Martin said resignedly, not looking at him again. “I started thinking… that I just can’t carry on. Now. I mean –“ a bitter laugh – “Christ. _Really_. They’ve taken _everything_ from me.”

 

“It’s not true.” Douglas wanted to stop him, correct him, but Martin shook his head even more firmly, shivering a little in the light chill of the evening air.

 

“That’s how I felt. How I feel. How can I keep going, after this?”

 

Douglas didn’t know how to answer him. Agitation flickered desperately in his chest, though he made no outward sign of it. His usual facility with words had utterly deserted him, just when it was most vital for him to find the right response, to change Martin’s mind, to convince him that he had to _fight_ , he had to…

 

Before he could compose himself, Martin had continued speaking, as if determined to get everything out, poison leaching from a wound.

 

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough. Don’t even know if it’s worth bothering to try.” Hopelessness rang in every syllable.

 

“ _Please_ try.” Douglas surprised himself by speaking before he’d even consciously considered it.

 

“The worst thing was…” Martin’s voice quavered, failed. He tried again, a touch of anger colouring the words, now. “The worst thing was – God, Douglas. I never even wanted you to see inside my house. I thought that _that_ was the thing that I would always be most ashamed of. That you seeing my grotty room would _always_ be the worst possible thing that could happen.”

 

Douglas was frozen, staring at the floor. Couldn’t look at Martin, whose voice was once again muffled as he hid his face in his knees.

 

“And now – look how it’s turned out. How can I look _anyone_ in the eye, ever again? But how can I look at _you_ , now you’ve seen… what you’ve seen?”

 

Douglas’ heart was pounding, breaking with each beat of his treacherous blood through his body, his mind flying apart as Martin’s words tore at him.

 

“How can I go on… facing you? I hate myself. What they did to me. I am utterly, utterly…” The final word almost broke on a tiny, dry sob. “ _Humiliated_.” Martin heaved a great, shuddering breath, and was still.

 

Douglas could have howled. Shame and horror crashed through him like a wave, and he felt as if he was drowning in them. Only the duty he owed to Martin permitted him to speak, the knowledge that he would punish himself later, for this, for all of it, for what he had done to his friend. Because he knew, now, Martin was his friend. A very important friend. And to think that a month ago he would have curled his lip superiorly rather than have admitted it… the awareness filled him with guilt even more acute, more suffocating.

 

Trying to quash his internal turmoil, he stammered. “No. No. No, Martin. I know it must… _feel_ that way. I don’t know how I would respond if it were me.” He spoke more steadily. “But, _please_ , know that the only people I think badly of – the only people I attach _any_ kind of blame for this to – are the three _animals_ that put you in this position in the first place. You have to believe me.” No response. “You have to.”

 

Martin eventually nodded, slowly. “I know what you’re saying is logical.” The wind picked up, gusting cold air at them both. He shuddered, stared back at Douglas. “But it doesn’t change how I feel.”

 

“I know.” Vague memories of his post-alcohol counseling tugged at Douglas’ subconscious. “But… please trust me. On this. Even if you can’t always trust my decisions when it comes to things like… watching polar bears.” He was faintly encouraged to see the ghost of a smile tug momentarily at the corners of Martin’s lips before vanishing. “I know it seems impossible now. But it’s all so fresh – raw. Give yourself time.”

 

Martin made a moue of dissent. “I don’t WANT time.” He sounded fractious, disgusted. “I don’t want to feel, anymore, Douglas.” He turned his face away from him. “I want it all to go away.”

 

“I know.” Douglas scrambled for an idea. “Try… try not to worry about having to cope with this forever. Not just now. All I need you to do – Martin – look at me – is to cope with it for tonight. Just eight hours. The time it would take to fly to… to Burundi. Remember that one? Landing in that crosswind?”

 

Martin nodded. “You let me have it.”

 

“And you did it perfectly.”

 

“It could have been better.”

 

Sharply, Douglas retorted. “If I say you did it perfectly, it was perfect.” He paused, gave Martin time to absorb his words. “This… what’s happened to you. It’s one more nasty thing to cope with. One more icy runway. Crosswind. Stubborn ATC. You can cope with things, Martin. You can.”

 

Martin shook his head, but less emphatically this time. “Only because you’re there for those things. And don’t gloat.”

 

“What’s the difference? I’m here now.” He held Martin’s gaze. “I am here. I’m not going away.”

 

He saw Martin weigh up the statement. After what felt like endless eons of time spiraling away, saw him believe it. Nod.

 

“Come on.” He stood up, aching after spending long minutes on the hard bench. Goodness knows what Martin’s joints felt like. “I’m taking you home. To my house.”

 

Martin made the beginnings of a sound of disagreement, but Douglas didn’t let him complete it. “No objections. We can leave your van here, pick it up tomorrow. You're coming with me.”

 

Martin stood, hesitated. Slumped. “OK.”

 

They walked back to the car together. Douglas opened the door, gestured for Martin to get inside. Together, they drove back to Fitton.

 

* * *

 

Douglas collapsed on to his sofa with a sigh. He’d shown Martin into his spare room and given him some of his clean pyjamas, though of course they’d drown him in excess material. He’d left him be.

 

Martin had been quiet on the way home, apparently lost in thought. Douglas hadn’t liked to interrupt. The flood of adrenaline now dissipating from his system had also left him even more drained than before, and on the motorway it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

 

Martin hadn’t wanted to go back to his student house, so Douglas had simply shown him into his home for a second time and given him the brief tour of the upstairs. The captain had looked utterly exhausted too. Douglas’ heart ached at the knowledge of why Martin was so tired, imagining the agony of trying to stay awake for three weeks solid.

 

Martin's face appeared to swim before Douglas as he contemplated the situation. He could see his captain, clear as day, those high cheekbones, the angry flush on the pale cheeks making them appear more pronounced in those moments on the bench when he’d raged, however briefly, at the position he was in. Douglas’ brain flicked to the memory of Martin’s eyelashes feathering on his lower lids as he’d screwed his eyes shut, trying to block out the horror, the anguish – the lashes light against the dark, bruise-like shadows under the skin.

 

His stomach churned, the image of Martin’s face perfectly vivid. He wanted so much to protect him – to take it all away – to cradle him against it all – gather him in his arms and make him forget everything...  _wait_.

 

Douglas’ eyes snapped open. Gather him in his arms? What was he thinking? He shook himself. He was being stupid. Over-protective. He had no right to think that way of his _captain_. It wasn’t his entitlement. Martin was his friend. Natural to want to guard a friend against harm…

 

His head nodded forwards. Imperceptibly, he began to slip towards a dream – or was it a memory? Martin, in front of him on the bench.

 

“I’m utterly, utterly… _humiliated_.” That choked sob.

 

Dream-Douglas was rent to the core once more. He reached out… wiped the single tear from Martin’s cheekbone with his thumb. Used his fingers to gentle Martin’s hairline. Saw him lean in, leaned in to meet him, Dream-Martin’s breath mingling with his own…

 

“ARGH!”

 

Douglas was snapped from his slumber as abruptly as if someone had slapped him. At first, he couldn’t think where he was – unaccustomed to falling asleep on the sofa at this time of night – not used to the terrified moans echoing from the normally empty house above him. He suddenly clocked what was happening, and pounded up the stairs, burst into the spare room, where Martin was thrashing wildly in the sheets.

 

“Martin!” He shook his shoulder, firmly. “It’s a dream – wake up! Martin!”

 

Martin awoke with a gasp. His terrified eyes found Douglas’. “Oh God – sorry – sorry –“

 

“It’s OK, you’re alright, you’re alright…” Douglas stepped back, fighting the crazy impulse to stroke Martin’s forehead as he'd used to when Verity had a nightmare. “Just a dream.”

 

“Just – just a dream. I’m sorry. I – I’ll go back to sleep.” Martin rolled back over, hiding himself in the blankets.

 

“Would you like me to stay?”

 

“No, thank you.” Not looking at him.

 

At a loss, Douglas paused for a second. Should he insist?

 

“Goodnight.” Martin sounded firm.

 

 _He has the right to decide_ , Douglas concluded, and stepped out on to the landing, pulling the door to behind him. “Goodnight,” he called through it.

 

He buried his face in his hands, then scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Bed,” he said, firmly to himself.

 

It wasn’t until he lay down, in his own bed at long last, that he suddenly remembered what had been floating hazily through his mind when Martin’s yell had woken him up.

 

_Martin’s breath, mingling with my own –_

 

“NO.” He sat bolt upright in bed. Slapped himself, physically, hard, in the face, feeling his cheek throb angrily at the sting. “I just need sleep. Just need sleep.”

 

Muttering, in an attempt to stem the ashamed curl in his chest, he lay back down and closed his eyes. He prayed for morning, and dreamless slumber.


	10. Cabin Crew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJN rallies round Martin.

Martin woke the next morning to find sunlight streaming through the curtains. He had a moment of discombobulation, utterly unable to place his surroundings – _where am I?_ – before the events of the previous evening suddenly shot across his brain. His eyes flicked open and he reflexively pulled the duvet higher around him. _Douglas’ house_.

 

The memory of Douglas’ face flew through his mind. How Douglas had sat, opposite him on the bench, looking simply mildly concerned at first glance – until Martin looked into his eyes. Then he’d seen the bluff the face presented – the eyes were full of panic that Douglas couldn’t completely suppress. It had taken Martin completely aback – the idea that his co-pilot was actually there, caring, frightened for him, wanting him to be alright – Martin had struggled to believe it. Why should he matter to someone so much smoother, older, more experienced in every way? Even if they were colleagues, Martin had never dared to imagine Douglas would see him as a friend worth doing all this for – pelting to Bristol, staying up, listening to his fear, encouraging him, trying to save him. Almost as if they were equals. As if he deserved to be comforted.

 

Unless – maybe Douglas was just doing all this out of misplaced guilt. Seeing him as a pathetic victim. Not an equal. Not a friend. At the thought, his insides shriveled. He felt the humiliation tugging at him again.

 

Rolling over, trying to banish the unpleasant worry, he swung his legs out of bed. The pain was definitely diminishing – a week ago, that would have hurt his hips. Strained muscles and ligaments, the doctors had thought – he’d obviously been yanked around. In some ways, the pain there was worse than the pain he’d been most worried about – knowing why he had what they’d called an ‘anal fissure’ (he cringed again at the disgusting thought) had done much to alleviate the pain he’d been trying to block out from it. Now there wasn’t a dose of dizzying fear to go along with the twinges, it was more bearable. It just meant that now he shuddered with knowledge rather than suspicion. _Ugh._ It would heal – was already healing. But having Douglas know why they’d given him that ointment… he hated it. It was too personal, that information – like being flayed open in front of the person he admired and respected most in the world…

 

He stood up with a groan, making the floorboards squeak. What time was it, anyway? The sun was high in the sky. How long had he slept?

 

“Martin?”

 

A voice called him from downstairs – softly, inquiringly. A female voice. Huh. Douglas’ wife wasn’t back, was she?

 

He poked his head on to the landing. “Hello?”

 

“Aha. You’re up.”

 

Martin nearly fell over in astonishment. “ _Carolyn_?”

 

“The very same.” She walked up the stairs to meet him. “Close your mouth, you look like a trout.”

 

“But…” Martin was utterly bewildered. “This is Douglas’ house, isn’t it?”

 

“Of course it is. Good grief, Martin, you’re supposed to be intelligent.” The belligerent tone was softened by the look in her eye – one Martin was getting increasingly used to glimpsing – concern, worry, hesitation.

 

“What are you doing here? I mean – it’s good to see you – I just –“ Martin was suddenly aware of how he was dressed, and clutched compulsively at the over-sized shirt he’d been lent, embarrassed. “I just never expected to see you while I was in my pyjamas.”

 

She looked him up and down, and gave a small, Carolyn-ish smirk. “No, well, that wasn’t a prospect that filled me with excitement, either. Here.” She handed him a small bag, black, stuffed full. “Douglas found your house keys in your trouser pockets. He went round and picked you up some things to wear. Get dressed.” She turned to go back downstairs.

 

“But, but, but…” Martin stammered, quite taken aback. He cleared his throat. “Where’s Douglas? Wha-?”

 

She called back over her shoulder. “Douglas is off flying three oil executives to Aberdeen. Herc is sitting next to him, pretending to be the captain. Arthur is serving them drinks. And I –“ she fixed him with her flintiest stare – “I am cooking you breakfast. So come down and eat it, won’t you?” She reached the bottom of the stairs, turned back. “That’s an order, not a request.” With a firm nod, she disappeared in the direction of Douglas’ kitchen.

 

Martin’s jaw still felt as if it was resting on his chest. He would never in a month of Sundays have predicted _this_ turn of events.

 

“Hurry up!” The kitchen door slammed.

 

He snapped his mouth shut, shook his head, and went into the bedroom to get dressed.

 

………………..

 

A quarter of an hour later, Martin poked his head nervously round the door into the kitchen, not quite sure what he expected to see.

 

“Ah. You’re down.” Carolyn looked over her spectacles at him from her position at the kitchen table, where she’d been flipping through the newspaper. “Here.”

 

She pushed a covered plate towards him, then peeled back the foil to reveal a full English underneath, right down to the two sausages nestling plumply alongside the bacon and scrambled eggs. The smell of the fried, greasy plateful hit Martin’s nostrils, and his stomach rumbled so loudly even Carolyn heard it. A triumphant look flashed in her eyes.

 

“I knew it. Eat. NOW.”

 

Martin took a seat, and stared at the plate in front of him. Slowly, he picked up the knife and fork, carved off a piece of bacon, and introduced it to his mouth. He chewed gingerly. He hadn’t eaten anything for at least 36 hours – he’d been feeling far too nauseated. The food was good – Arthur’s tendency towards culinary mishap evidently didn’t come from Carolyn’s side of the family – but he still felt sick, too tired to eat. He swallowed, and tried to relinquish the cutlery, but Carolyn pounced.

 

“No. I said eat it, and I meant it.” She fixed him with a basilisk stare until he was forced to quail and nod under her gaze.

 

Picking up the fork again, he poked at some egg this time – then some sausage. Then some beans…

 

It took the best part of 40 minutes, but eventually he knew he physically couldn’t eat another mouthful. He patted his distended stomach (more as a visible gesture to her than anything else) and then pushed the plate away. Carolyn had gone back to the paper, but looked up again at the scraping noise.

 

“Done?”

 

He nodded, worried that she’d insist he went back and cleared the plate – he was certain he’d be sick if he tried. However, she seemed to appreciate the struggle he’d been having with the meal, and didn’t force the issue. She did look as if she wanted to speak, though, and Martin wilted at the expected upcoming rage about his sick leave meaning MJN was sliding deeper into the red due to his absence.

 

He was taken totally by surprise when instead of snapping at him, she instead asked – almost nervously – “How… how are you?”

 

“Fine.” He drew his arms round himself protectively.

 

She almost glared at him, looking alarmingly like his mother. “Of course you’re not.”

 

He winced internally. _I don’t want to talk about it._ Standing up, he made to leave the room, but was stopped when she spoke again.

 

“Martin.”

 

He didn’t turn around, but halted, listening.

 

“I’m… I’m so sorry. For the part that Gordon has played in this.”

 

He didn’t know what to say. Carolyn, apologizing? Everything was all wrong. She should be being brisk, brusque. Her usual self. This tentative, nervous approach just underlined how screwed up he’d made everything. Nothing was as normal, and Martin hated it.

 

“Not your fault.” He didn’t want to look at her. “I’m going…” _find an excuse, damn it!_ “I’m going to lie down in the lounge.”

 

This time she let him leave.

 

* * *

 

Much later in the day, once Carolyn had forced lunch down him, she came and sat in the lounge too. He shut his eyes, trying not to appear unfriendly, just… unavailable. At first, she appeared to believe his pretence of napping, but eventually she cleared her throat uncomfortably.

 

Sighing, Martin cracked one eye open. “What is it? I can’t eat anymore, no matter how good it is –“

 

“No.” She shook her head, looking totally discomfited – an expression that he’d never seen on her face before. “Martin…”

 

His insides twisted uncomfortably. He couldn’t talk about this with her, he couldn’t, wouldn’t.

 

“Why won’t you report it?”

 

He froze. She pressed on. “ _Please_. They hurt you. They should be punished.”

 

Martin couldn’t look at her. _How can I make you understand?_

 

“Herc’s got a brother who’s a lawyer. He could put you in touch with the right people. You’d be eligible for Legal Aid. Look, I’ve checked.” She reached into her handbag, pulled out a sheaf of printouts and pushed them towards him where he lay, stretched out on the settee.

 

She looked at him inquiringly, expecting a response. His stomach curdled, unsure how to answer.

 

Seeing him hesitate, she carried on. “It wouldn’t cost you anything, Martin. You _have_ to do this.”

 

But at that, something unbent within him, and suddenly he was flying, rage coursing through him, hot, powerful, deadly. “Wouldn’t _cost_ me anything?!” He was on his feet in one fluid move, glaring at her. “You think my reasons for keeping this quiet are _financial_?!”

 

Her eyes had gone wide, her mouth open. Blood pounded in his ears.

 

“You don’t think it might cost me _everything_? Everything, to go through all of it in front of strangers? Again and again and again? Have to defend my actions in court? Have to explain why I drank spirits with men I didn't know?” _Odd, I’ve never been sure of that before…_ A memory suddenly sparked in some remote corner of his mind – a drink – coughing – an odd taste…

 

Shoving the recollection aside, he ploughed on. “You don’t think it would take me apart? To have 12 people, teams of lawyers, a judge, journalists, weighing up my _worst-ever_ experience to see whether I’m lying? You don’t think that would cost me my last shred of dignity?”

 

“Martin –“

 

“No, it’s fine. I know it’s all very _simple_ as far as you’re concerned. I know I’m just stupid Martin, the silly captain, getting all in a flap about nothing –“

 

“Of course it’s not nothing!” She sounded really wounded. Somewhere, guilt pricked at his conscience, but it was too remote to make much of an impact. Anger still pulsed heatedly within him.

 

“It’s bad enough that you all know – that I’ve lost all of your respect –“ Douglas’ face suddenly sprang to mind, concerned, frightened. _All wrong_. “I can’t do this.” He turned to leave the lounge, wanting to hide, yet she was suddenly next to him, clutching his arm and trying to prevent his escape. Panic shot through him, vivid and agonizing.

 

“GET OFF!” He flung his arm up, out of her reach, accidentally catching her in the cheek as he did so. Her fingers flew to where he’d knocked her. Guilt overcame him in a sudden flood. “Oh Christ – I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Have I hurt you?”

 

She shook her head no, seemingly unable to find words. Groaning, he sank back down onto the sofa, rested his head into his hands, the powerful, poisonous rage draining out of him like water from a bath. She sat next to him, but didn’t say anything.

 

“I can’t report it, I can’t.” He expected her to argue back, now that he wasn’t shouting anymore.

 

“OK.”

 

“OK?” He looked at her in disbelief. Since when had Carolyn not simply steamrollered over him?

 

She raised an eyebrow, taking in his startled expression. “It’s up to you. We respect that. We… we respect _you_.”

 

“Good grief,” he muttered.

 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t hope you change your mind. And I’m leaving these when I go.” She indicated the papers she’d shoved at him. “At least have a look.”

 

He nodded, placatingly. Knew he’d be burying them in the recycling as soon as he could.

 

“Now. Can I get you any more to eat?”

 

* * *

 

The following day, Douglas made him breakfast. It seemed as though there was an MJN ploy to feed him up as much as possible – Martin hadn’t consumed this many calories for years.

 

“Where are you off to today?” Martin tried to make polite conversation.

 

“Belfast. Some logistics head honcho, I think.” Douglas yawned. Martin felt a flash of guilt – he’d woken Douglas up three times in the night by screaming out. Each time he’d thrashed awake, Douglas had been there, soothing voice calming him, making sure he was alright. At first he’d felt horribly embarrassed, disgraced – like a little boy again, being a child. But he couldn’t help it, and gradually – by the third time – Douglas’ gentling presence had acted like a lifeline, a shot of instant calm washing through his system once he realized where he was – that he wasn’t in Riga, they weren’t real now, the three voices laughing… hands stroking… pain stabbing... The last time Douglas hadn’t left him – had fallen asleep in the chair by the bed.

 

Across the table from him now, Douglas stretched, joints cracking. Martin was ashamed.

 

“I hope you’re not too achy.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Falling asleep in that chair.”

 

“Oh, no. Used to do it all the time when Verity had nightmares.”

 

 _Great. I’m as bad as a little girl_. He changed the subject. “What flying time have you got?”

 

“Oh, under an hour. Shouldn’t be a long one.” Douglas yawned again, stood up, clearing the plates. “I’d better get going.”

 

“OK.” Martin felt empty, an odd hollowness spreading through him at the thought of Douglas’ impending absence. The morning light spilling through the window caught Douglas’ face at that moment, as the sun emerged from behind a cloud, and Martin was struck by the profile of his first officer in a way he hadn’t been before. Light laughter lines, a touch of grey at the temples… he rarely noticed what a kind face it was. Probably because it was usually engaged in mocking him, but still…

 

Douglas looked up, caught Martin studying him, cleared his throat. Martin snapped his head down, feeling guilty for some strange reason. The unpleasant prospect of a day on his own – with all the attendant inescapable thoughts, imaginings – stretched out before him, filling him with dread. But he couldn’t expect Douglas to babysit him.

 

“Right. I’ll go and get my things.” Douglas shot Martin a smile, again a different smile than he’d normally use. This one didn’t reach his eyes. Martin felt his heart sink all over again. _Everything’s all wrong. Different._

 

Douglas stumped up the stairs to grab his bag. As he reached the landing the doorbell rang.

 

“You get that, Martin, will you?”

 

Martin ambled into the hall. A figure was silhouetted in the glass. He could hear Douglas moving about above him, gathering his belongings for the day – perhaps this was the postman? He opened the door.

 

“Morning, Skip!”

 

Martin’s mouth fell open. “ _Arthur_?”

 

“Can I come in?” Arthur beamed at him.

 

“You’re here to collect Douglas?” Martin stood aside to allow him entry. Arthur bustled past, arms full of boxes and bags.

 

“Of course not! I’m here to spend the day with you!”

 

Martin gaped. Douglas came down the stairs behind them.

 

“Morning, Douglas!”

 

“Arthur.” Douglas had his flight bag over his shoulder. Martin felt a pang go through him at the sight of the uniform. _I should be going_. But the thought of the flight deck ran through his mind and he shivered. _They were on there – the three men..._ He couldn’t do it.

 

Douglas was addressing the new arrival. Martin tuned back in.

 

“… and dinner’s defrosting on the draining board. I’ve written the instructions down for you.”

 

“Brilliant!”

 

“Do exactly what they say, won’t you? I don’t want to have to come home and find you’ve poisoned the captain _and_ half the cabin crew.” Douglas sounded as though he was only partly joking – though based on the surprising rice and the admiral’s pie and the orange platter, he had good reason… to his own astonishment, Martin chuckled.

 

Arthur and Douglas both looked at him, Douglas looking amazed, Arthur simply delighted. Douglas gathered himself.

 

“Right. Best be off. See you two later… unpoisoned, you hear?” With a faux-stern nod to Arthur, he closed the front door behind him. They heard the car door open and slam and the engine start. Martin felt his amusement die. Douglas was gone. The emptiness filled him again. His shoulders sagged.

 

Good job Arthur wasn’t perceptive enough to notice. “What do you want to play first, Skip?” he asked, excitably.

 

“Play?”

 

* * *

 

Later, Martin sat back with a sigh. He and Arthur had spent six solid hours playing games he thought he’d left behind in childhood – Jenga, Cluedo, Hungry Hippos, Monopoly, and he’d just been thrashed at Kerplunk for the second time.

 

“I win again!”

 

“Yes, alright Arthur, no need to gloat.”

 

Arthur looked very slightly guilty. “Sorry, Skip.” His face brightened again. “But I never win usually!”

 

“You never usually play someone with my luck,” Martin groused.

 

“Aw, don’t say that!” Arthur smiled happily as he began to pack the game away. “You’ve got lots of luck!”

 

Martin looked at him in disbelief. “Lucky? Me?”

 

“Of course! You know me, don’t you? And Mum, and Douglas? What could be luckier?”

 

Martin paused. In anyone else, the question would have sounded egotistical or self-flattering. But Arthur simply, honestly meant it. And he was right. “Of course.”

 

Arthur beamed. Martin felt his spirits lift a little. Truth be told, six hours of incessant playing games had done quite a bit to distract him. He had been caught up in them despite himself, and for once, hadn’t thought about the reason that he was in Douglas’ house with a 29 year old sitter…

 

“What shall we play now?” Arthur looked at him expectantly. “Or shall we do a jigsaw? I’ve got a new one – look – baked beans! A thousand pieces!”

 

Martin pushed his unpleasant thoughts aside. “Jigsaw it is.”

 

“Brilliant!”

 

* * *

 

“Here’s another edge, Arthur…” Martin handed over the piece. Arthur took it thoughtfully, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth with the force of his concentration.

 

“Aha!” Arthur slotted two more pieces together. “Are you having any luck with the middle?”

 

Martin looked dolefully at the meagre eight pieces he’d been able to unite, and the enormous jumbled pile still to go. “Not hugely,” he confessed. “The trouble with baked beans is… they all look the same.”

 

“Exactly!” Arthur sounded over the moon. “That’s where the challenge is!”

 

Martin smiled. Arthur’s enthusiasm was… not infectious, exactly, but it was at least a welcome change. There would never be anything tentative or hesitant about Arthur’s approach to him. But it was still surprising.

 

“Arthur?” Easier to talk like this, when their attention was focused on the pieces in front of them.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“How come you’re not…” Martin trailed off, losing his courage.

 

“Not what?” Arthur tried two pieces, aborted the attempt, cast one aside.

 

Martin tried again. “How come you’re not… being any _different_ around me?”

 

“Different?” Arthur sounded bewildered.

 

“Yes.” Martin felt awkward.

 

“Should I be different? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.” Arthur sounded a bit worried for the first time.

 

“No!” Martin didn’t know what he was saying. “No, it’s nice that you’re not.  I mean – Douglas, and your Mum… it’s just that they’re acting – not normally around me, now, but you’re being the same as you usually are.”

 

Arthur looked up at him. “But of course I’m the same!” He really didn’t understand what Martin was asking. “You’re the same person, aren’t you?”

 

An honest question. Martin genuinely didn’t know the answer. “Ye-es…” he ventured, eventually. “I think so. I’m not sure.”

 

“Well, _I_ think you’re the same person.” Arthur sounded convinced. “You’re still the captain.”

 

“I’m not flying.”

 

“Well, no, not today. But you will again soon. And you still know everything about GERTI, and navigating, and you’ll still get that smile in your eyes when we take off, and when you play word games with Douglas. You’re still you.” Arthur appeared far more certain than Martin felt.

 

“I suppose so. It’s just…” Martin squinted at the two pieces he was trying to force together. Twiddled one round. “I suppose I was just expecting you to feel a bit strange around me. After what happened.” He waited for Arthur to flinch, but Arthur didn’t budge. Just looked back at him. “Everyone… everyone else seems to.”

 

“Well, I expect that’s because they don’t know what to say. People don’t, always.”

 

“But you do?”

 

“Oh, no!” Arthur shook his head earnestly, his clear blue eyes meeting Martin’s green ones unflinchingly. “I think I’m just more used to it than most people. I never feel like I know what to say. So it doesn’t really worry me, anymore.”

 

“Oh.” That made an odd sort of sense. “Got it!” Martin proudly held up the two new pieces he’d suddenly matched.

 

“Well done!”

 

Martin felt a ridiculous little glow of pride. He bent back to the pieces, sifting through them. He pondered further.

 

“So…” he ventured, finding a new shape to try and fit. “You think Douglas and Carolyn are acting… like this… because they feel all uncertain around me?”

 

Arthur considered. “I think…” His forehead furrowed with concentration. “I think people don’t know what to say in case they upset you. And they don’t want to do that.”

 

“It’s not because they think I’m different, now?” Voicing the crux of his worries made Martin squirm. “That they see me a whole other way?”

 

Arthur sounded taken aback. “Why would they think that?”

 

Martin shifted uncomfortably. “Well… what happened… I don’t really remember…”

 

“I know,” Arthur nodded. “Mum said you couldn’t recall the details.”

 

Martin stared very hard at the jigsaw. “But I know it was really… violent. And I didn’t fight back.”

 

“How does that make you a different person?” Arthur sounded confused again. Martin didn’t answer. “I’m sorry if I’m being stupid.”

 

“No – no. You’re not stupid. I just – I’m just worried –“ Martin pushed fretfully at the curved edges of a particularly stubborn part of the puzzle. “I suppose I’m worried that – if I didn’t fight back – that makes me a coward. Or an idiot. Or to blame.”

 

Arthur’s face cleared. “Oh! Of course not!” he said, emphatically, transparent honesty ringing in every word. “You don’t need to worry that that’s what people are thinking, you know.”

 

“I don’t?”

 

“No! I mean, you don’t really know what happened – you don’t know how you reacted –“

 

“The doctors said I didn’t have any defensive wounds –“ Martin remembered the casual observation with perfect clarity, the cringing shame that had flooded through him.

 

“No, but Douglas told us they gave you stuff to make you all floppy and sleepy. Of course you couldn’t fight that.” Arthur didn’t sound like he was trying to be kind – just as if he was stating a simple fact. Martin still didn’t feel like he could believe it.

 

“It still feels like my fault.”

 

Arthur considered. “I know what you mean. It’s hard to believe the truth sometimes.” Martin nodded, bit his lip, embarrassed. _Why am I discussing this with_ Arthur _, for goodness’ sake_?

 

Arthur carried on. “I used to feel guilty too, you know.” He matched one piece to another with a satisfying ‘click’ – moved on to the next. “When Dad used to hit me and my Mum, then it always felt like my fault.”

 

“Your Dad used – used to hit…?” Martin was stunned.

 

“Yeah.” Arthur shook his head. “It wasn’t very nice. Wasn’t ever very hard, I mean, he never left big marks or anything, but I always used to feel guilty afterwards.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” Martin didn’t know what to say.

 

“Oh! It was ages ago. Before they split up. They were both happier after that.”

 

“How did you…” Martin wasn’t really sure what he was asking. “How did you… cope? With being hit?”

 

Arthur considered for a moment. “I coped best when I realized that it wasn’t my fault at all. It took me a few years to work out – I expect you’d have got it straight away. But I was quite little.” He thought some more. “I suppose I just suddenly understood. That nothing I’d done deserved that. It was my Dad’s decision to wallop us, and nothing about that decision reflected on me.” He suddenly nodded. “I know what made me realise! It was that I knew that my Mum hadn’t done anything to deserve it. So maybe I hadn’t, either. And then…” he wrinkled his brow as he pondered how to continue. “Then I guess… it was just something that had happened to me. Not anything about who I am. Does that make sense?”

 

“I think so…” Martin frowned in turn. “I just feel… awful.”

 

“Of course you do.” Arthur patted his hand. Martin flinched. “It only happened a couple of weeks ago. I’m really, really sorry that it did.” His eyes met Martin’s again, but there wasn’t pity in them – just frankness. “I feel very angry about it. I suppose you do too.”

 

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Martin didn’t know what to say. “I still feel guilty. Humiliated.” He wanted to curl up and hide.

 

“I’m sorry.” Arthur pushed a piece towards him. “There’s some middle…” Martin took it. “Perhaps it’ll take you a bit of time, too. To realise that it’s not your fault, I mean. That’s OK.”

 

Martin sat still. He felt very, very tired. “Do you mind if we stop for now? I think I’ll lie down for a bit.”

 

“No problem!” Arthur got up. “I’ll go and make some coffee, shall I?”

 

“OK.” Martin wandered to the sofa and lay down, listening to the sounds of Arthur clattering in the kitchen. _Not my fault_. He shook himself. The thought comforted him, briefly. He closed his eyes. Somewhere in the back of his brain, thoughts were whirling, but they seemed a little farther away than they did sometimes. As he slipped towards sleep, he heard Arthur set a mug down beside him.

 

His last thoughts before dozing were confused. _Not my fault should’ve fought harder not my fault should’ve fought harder not my fault should’ve fought harder_ … He slipped under, sleep claiming him again.

 

* * *

 

“Where would you like the tea?” Herc inquired, waving the full mug at him.

 

“Oh. Here, please. Cheers.” Martin watched as Herc set the cup on the coffee table, then wandered back to pick up his magazine again. It was four days after Arthur’s visit, and Douglas was again at work, off flying some cargo to Jersey. It was apparently Herc’s turn on Martin-sitting duty – he’d now realized that some sort of pact had been made not to leave him in the house alone. Carolyn had been in for a second time yesterday while Douglas, Herc and Arthur flew to Newcastle and back, and then Herc had shown up at 10am this morning, just in time for Douglas to leave for the airfield. Martin could only imagine what it had cost Douglas to leave Herc in his house (judging by the slight curl in his lip as he’d left, it was a lot) and so he didn’t dare demur.

 

Yesterday he and Carolyn had mostly left each other alone – she reading the paper, he sitting quietly in the lounge. Not that he’d ever have admitted it to her, but simply hearing the pages turning in the other room, knowing he wasn’t on his own, was one of the most comforting things in the world. Though he’d gone and ruined it by nodding off and then falling into a nightmare, humiliating himself in front of her by waking up yelling – this time there had been tears damp on his face when she woke him up. How _embarrassing_. He hadn’t been able to look her in the eye for the rest of the day, and when she left he’d only managed a single, humiliated ‘Bye.’ _Ugh_.

 

He sipped at the tea, scalding his lip but relishing the homey, familiar smell.

 

“I’ve got some news for you, actually.” Herc looked at him over the top of the magazine he was flipping through.

 

“Oh yes?” Martin wondered what news this could possibly be. Maybe GERTI was broken again somehow.

 

“You know I got my brother to communicate with that website a week ago?”

 

Martin froze. Ice flooded his guts. All week he’d been shoving _that website_ out of his brain. After a long hesitation, he nodded, tersely.

 

“We heard back from them this morning.”

 

Martin tried to keep his voice light, uninterested. “Oh?”

 

“The video’s been removed.”

 

“Removed?” Martin didn’t dare believe it. “Really?”

 

“Yes. My brother’s awfully good.” Herc smiled grimly. “And it helps when a big scary lawyer can toss in words like _illegal in this country_ and _non-consenting_ and _drug abuse_.”

 

“So… it’s gone?” Martin felt a tiny, tiny shred of hope within him.

 

“Yes…” Herc seemed to hesitate, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to go on. “But, Martin…”

 

“What?”

 

“Well.” Herc shifted, uncomfortably, in his chair. It was odd to see him looking so unsure of himself. _Another one treating me strangely_. Martin’s spirits fell.

 

“Well. You know what the internet’s like.” Herc spoke slowly, carefully. “I’m very sorry, but… there will be copies out there, by now.”

 

Martin knew. He didn’t reply.

 

“I mean, as soon as we find them, we can get them taken down. But it’s likely to be a bit of an ongoing battle.”

 

“I know.” Martin felt helplessness warring with anger in his chest.

 

“At least it’s down from the original site, though.”

 

Martin nodded. Herc returned to his magazine.

 

“Herc?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Martin swallowed, hard. “I want to watch it.”

 

Herc stared at him. “You… what?”

 

Martin met his gaze, unflinchingly. “I want to watch it.”

 

A beat. Then Herc sighed. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

 

Martin was slightly amazed. He’d expected Herc to tell him he was being a complete idiot.

 

“Really?”

 

“Well, no. If you still can’t remember what happened… I’m not surprised you want to know.”

 

“Oh.” Martin hadn’t expected such instant understanding.

 

“You do realise it could make things worse, don’t you? Are you absolutely sure that you want to watch it? Once you have… well, you can’t un-know what you’ve seen.” Herc cleared his throat, continued. “It’s one chance only. And – well, what if it doesn’t help?”

 

“I’ll never know, till I’ve seen it.” Martin had been thinking about it since he knew film existed. Hadn’t dared to say anything to anyone. Once, he’d even surreptitiously logged on to Douglas’ computer, opened a search page. But he hadn’t known what to type.

 

Herc rubbed his forehead. “I suppose so. But – I can’t really offer you any guidance. I haven’t seen it.”

 

Martin felt a tiny pang of relief – he’d known Herc had promised not to view the footage, but hadn’t been sure if he’d resisted temptation or not. Herc was clearly telling the truth.

 

“And I don’t think you should watch it alone. You need someone with you.”

 

Martin shook his head violently. “ _No one_ else is going to watch that recording.”

 

“No, I mean – just have somebody in the room with you. Don’t try and cope without help.” Martin looked rebellious, but Herc was firm. “I have the only copy of that video that we know of at the moment, Martin, which I have kept for legal reasons – in case you change your mind about pressing charges in the future. I _will not_ give it to you unless you promise me that you won’t try and sit through that kind of abuse by yourself. It’s a terrible idea.”

 

Martin seethed, momentarily, while Herc’s words sank in. Herc let him stew, turning back to the article he’d been looking through. After a few minutes, the sense of his words had become apparent, as Martin’s brain raced through the kind of things that might have been captured on film, how it might feel to see them... He had begun to shake, sweat. Herc noticed.

 

“Martin.” He stood up, came over to where Martin sat, crouching next to him. “Breathe.”

 

Martin nodded, trying to master his emotions. He felt sick.

 

“Please. Consider the wisdom of what I’m saying. You shouldn’t have to go through an experience like that by yourself. No one should.”

 

Slowly, Martin nodded. “But – how can I have anyone with me? I don’t know if I can stand the mortification… but I want to see it. I _need_ to see it, Herc.”

 

“I know... but... what if there was someone who’d already seen it anyway – already knew what it contained?”

 

Martin’s mind whirled as he processed the statement. “You mean - _Douglas_?”

 

Herc nodded. “He already knows the content. And I think he’s already proved to you that he doesn’t think any the less of you for it.”

 

 _I wish I could believe that_. Martin sank into a reverie as he weighed up the suggestion. He was so sick of the complete fog that blocked his memories of that horrible night. So sick of his imagination filling the gaps, fearing the worst, conjuring hideous, terrible abuses that happened, didn’t happen, who knew. He couldn’t process what had occurred, because he still didn’t remember. _How can someone move on if they don’t know what they’ve got to put behind them_?

 

“How indeed?” Martin didn’t realise he’d spoken the last thought aloud until Herc responded to it.

 

“You understand.”

 

“I think so. But if you want to see it, you need to have Douglas with you. You need the support.”

 

Martin, reluctantly, nodded. Taking a swig of his tea, he felt his resolve harden.

 

“Just need to persuade Douglas, then, I suppose.” He tried to sound as if it was nothing – as if the thought of his first officer’s reaction didn’t make his stomach do flips with nerves and shame.

 

“Persuade me of what?” Douglas was in the doorway. They hadn’t heard him close the front door. He was looking from one to the other of them, inquisitively. Martin couldn’t speak, sudden happiness at his return immediately squashed in queasy anticipation of what needed to be asked.

 

“Persuade me of what?”


	11. Cross-check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has a request for Douglas.
> 
> (Again, please note trigger warnings - graphic content ahead.)

“Persuade me of what?” Douglas looked at Martin, who was staring at the floor, apparently unable to meet his eyes. _What on earth’s going on_? He’d posed his question lightly to begin with, his first thought being that perhaps Martin wanted to go home – or maybe he wanted Douglas to let him fly again. Or maybe it was simply that he had a meal request – though he’d seemed to like Douglas’ cooking up till now, insofar as he betrayed any emotion to him at all - ever. But then, he’d caught the flash of panic in Martin’s eyes before he’d looked away. He felt a tight clutch around his heart. _Why does Martin look so terrified_?

 

He decided to address Herc instead. Herc was watching Martin, an indefinable expression on his face. It looked… almost pitying. Compassionate. Not sentiments that Douglas was accustomed to seeing on the face of the smug, self-possessed, ever-poised face of Hercules Shipwright.

 

“Herc, what is it? What’s going on?” Douglas tentatively stepped forward, taking a seat at the other end of the sofa from Martin, who was still staring rigidly at the carpet.

 

Herc waved his hand. “It’s up to Martin to tell you.”

 

“Martin? What is it?” Douglas felt panicky, suddenly. Had Martin somehow found out what he’d done? Did Martin know about his ghastly betrayal? Irrational worry prickled over his skin. _No, he can’t know_. No one knew…

 

Martin took a deep breath. “Douglas… I want –“ He couldn’t finish.

 

Douglas was mystified. Wanted desperately to help. “Anything. Anything at all.” He noticed Herc raise an eyebrow.

 

Martin tried again, but spoke all in a rush. “I-want-watch-video.”

 

“What?” Douglas shook his head, blindsided. “Say that again. I must have misheard you.”

 

“No… you heard.” Martin looked at him, anxiously, green eyes seeming to pierce Douglas where he sat. “I… want to watch the video.”

 

“You - WHAT?!” Douglas was on his feet, pacing. _Wrong_ – _all wrong_ – a flood of remembered images streaming through his mind. The three men. Martin, hard from the uninvited masturbation. The muscled man, coming over him, streak after streak. The ghastly, drunken attempts Martin had made to scream… He spoke again, his voice shaking. “You can’t. You mustn’t. I’ve never heard such a stupid idea in my life.”

 

Martin’s lips trembled. “I was afraid you’d react like this.”

 

Herc chipped in, smooth voice raising the hackles on Douglas’ neck. “Try and stay calm, Douglas.” The admonition sent his agitation further into the stratosphere.

 

“Stay calm? Stay _calm_?!” He stopped pacing, fixed Herc with a steely glare. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked back at Martin. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Martin. You don’t want to see it. It’s disgusting. It’s _despicable_.”

 

For the briefest of seconds, Martin looked as if he wanted to cry. Seeing the heartbroken expression on his face, Douglas was filled with anguish. Wanted to fling his arms round him, stop him thinking, blot out the misery… After nearly a week in Martin’s company, he was getting used to feeling that way. He’d never thought that looking after _Martin_ , of all people, would inspire such feelings of protectiveness, of responsibility. Perhaps it was the guilt – the sense that he owed a debt of shame that could never be repaid. Maybe it was seeing him, night after night, tortured by his own mind, nightmares waking him over and over, sweating and shaking in such terrible fear – naturally, no one would be unaffected by seeing such torment, would they?

 

Or, perhaps (though he shoved this thought away the second it occurred to him) it was simply that he was finally realizing just how much Martin meant to him – the threat of losing him – the men could have done even worse if they’d wanted to, wince though he might at the thought – Martin had been utterly at their mercy, after all. They could have spirited him away, made him disappear – he’d never have known what happened… Maybe all that was finally making him aware of just what such a loss would mean. _Agony_. His breath heaved. He had to save Martin, make him understand just how atrocious that footage was.

 

He spoke loudly, passionately. “You don’t understand, Martin. The things they do to you – did to you, in that film… you can’t watch it. It would destroy you. It’s…” _Do I dare admit it?_ “It’s… destroying me.” _Don’t you dare smirk, Herc_ , he thought, fiercely, deliberately turning his face away from the third pilot.

 

“No, _you_ don’t understand,” Martin spoke up. Tentatively at first, his voice gradually strengthening. “Please try, Douglas. I know it will be horrible – difficult to witness. But I _need_ to know. I _have_ to know what actually happened.” He let out a quavering breath. “I can’t remember, and it’s killing me. I don’t know how I can explain to you what that’s like. Not to know what’s been done. Done to your own… body.” A look of total mortification furrowed his forehead. “I keep imagining things… and not knowing if they’re true. And dreaming – God, the dreams – well, you know. You’ve woken me from them.” Across the room from them, Herc shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

 

“And you don’t think actually seeing the video will make them worse?” Douglas was frantic, his question rhetorical. “Those images – you’ll never get them out of your head. And you refused the hospital’s counselling. You need help, Martin. You _can’t_ do this.”

 

Martin, who had winced at the word ‘counselling’, looked over at Herc, who chose that moment to weigh in again.

 

“Actually…” He continued speaking, despite Douglas' furious glare in his direction. “I think Martin’s right. He needs to find a way to come to terms with this, and what he’s said to me makes perfect sense.”

 

“Does it now?” Douglas seethed. “Well, we all know you’re the world expert on ways to recover from trauma. And everything sodding else. _You don’t know what you’re talking about_.”

 

“And you do?” Douglas opened his mouth to snap back, but couldn’t find a retort, for the first time ever. _What’s the matter with me_?

 

“Douglas…” Martin was staring at him, pleadingly. “I have to know. I’ll stop the playback if it gets too much. I just… can’t take this amnesia any more.” His voice was steady. He’d clearly made up his mind.

 

Douglas groaned and tousled his hands through his hair. He felt completely helpless, filled with futile, directionless anger. “… Fine. FINE.”

 

“I think that’s the right decision.” Herc stood up. “But, Martin… my condition still stands.”

 

Martin nodded. Shot Douglas another glance, as he raised a quizzical eyebrow. He looked back at Herc. “OK. I’ll talk about it… er… later. Let’s drop it for now.”

 

Herc nodded. “Well, I’ll be off.”

 

Douglas showed him to the door, leaving Martin on the sofa, fiddling with his hands, looking highly tense and uncomfortable. Out of Martin’s earshot, he leant towards Herc, who was shrugging on his jacket.

 

“Condition?” he whispered, aggressively.

 

“I’m saying nothing. But it’s for Martin’s own good. He’ll ask you in his own time.” Herc looked Douglas firmly in the eye. “ _Try_ and respond supportively, won’t you?”

 

Douglas glowered at him, refusing to allow his temper to master him. He wanted nothing more than to slap the man in the face. Herc seemed to realise he’d somewhat overstepped a boundary, as he nodded and said nothing further.

 

“Bye, Martin,” he called.

 

“Bye.” The reply was quiet, subdued.

 

“ _Goodbye_ , Hercules.” Douglas ushered him out of the door, glad to get the smug git out of his house. He had his uses, but _honestly_. Implying Douglas wasn’t supportive. He almost wished he had decked him – maybe he’d feel less furiously frustrated. Except that that would have been a terrible idea, and Carolyn would have heard about it… and the last thing he needed right now was a Carolyn on the warpath.

 

Sighing, he turned back to the lounge, concerned to find Martin exactly where he’d been two minutes earlier, still looking agitated and uncomfortable. He wanted so much to make him relax, calm down… Pushing all thought of the video from his mind, he tried to make his voice detached, friendly, non-aggressive.

 

“Can I get you a drink? Glass of water?”

 

Martin nodded. “Thanks.”

 

Douglas left to go and get a cup. _Feigned normality it is, then._ For now _._

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until much later, once they’d both finished dinner, that Martin raised the subject of the video again.

 

“Douglas?” He sounded tentative.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Can I talk…” He seemed to chicken out. “I mean, thanks for the meal. Brilliant food.”

 

Douglas wasn’t going to let him back away. “What is it that you want to talk about?” He felt a bit calmer, now. The shock of Martin’s request had worn off. He was trying not to think about it, which was really no different to how he’d attempted to cope all week. It still felt as though there was a rat gnawing at his brain, constantly trying to draw his attention back to the unpleasant recollection, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had any practice in life at blocking distasteful stuff out – the hangovers – the divorces – Verity’s absence… He’d just treat this like another one of those things.

 

Martin was fiddling with his fork. He seemed to decide to be honest, speaking very quietly.

 

“I’m nervous about talking about this with you.”

 

“Is this about Herc’s ‘condition’?”

 

Martin paused. “Yes.”

 

“I promised him I wouldn’t fly off the handle.” Said reluctantly, through gritted teeth.

 

“O…K…” Round and round went the fork in Martin’s fingers, which were trembling lightly. The contrast between the confident, highly-strung captain of a month ago and the pained, quivering man in front of him now abruptly struck Douglas with such force that it felt like a physical pain in his ribs. Gently, he relieved Martin of his cutlery, setting it down on the table.

 

“Martin. You can tell me. I promise, I won’t shout. Or think any less of you. Whatever it is.” Douglas desperately wanted him to stop shivering.

 

Martin gave a quick, sharp nod, seeming to summon up all his courage. “Herc said that he wouldn’t let me watch the video… alone. That I needed someone in the room to support me.”

 

“Right.” Douglas was taken aback. _That’s actually sensible_.

 

“It’s just… I don’t… I _can’t_ have anyone else see it.”

 

Douglas felt more hopeful, momentarily. “Sounds like an impasse. So – you can’t watch it.”

 

“No.” Martin hesitated. He appeared to be squashing some powerful emotion – after a week, Douglas recognized the symptoms. The captain’s eyes had gone totally blank, face detached as he repressed his feelings. Douglas’ levels of trepidation suddenly tripled. “I said… anyone _else_.”

 

“Oh... OH.” Douglas stood up, very suddenly. Martin’s eyes followed him, hollowly, like a dog expecting – resigned to – a kick.

 

The cowed, defeated attitude affected Douglas more powerfully than impassioned arguments might have done. Herc’s comment – _try and respond supportively, won’t you?_ – replayed in his brain, anger igniting and dying in the same instant. He paused before speaking, and his voice was steady.

 

“Give me some time to think.”

 

Martin nodded, accepting this. “I’ll do the dishes. I want to help.”

 

Douglas waved him away, replying casually “No, I think best while I’m occupied. You…” _get out of my sight, I can’t take this anymore, I want a drink, I want to turn back time…_ “You go and veg in front of the TV or something. I’m fine here.”

 

Martin inclined his head again, a little reluctantly, and seemed to weigh up whether to say anything. After a second, though, he turned and left, quietly pulling the door closed behind him. _Thank fuck_. Douglas heard the television flick on in the lounge, the muffled noise of canned laughter reaching him through the wall. His carefully controlled exterior split wide open; he snatched up the pointed knife he’d used to slice onions with earlier and without a second thought, drove it point-down deep into the wooden chopping board, stabbing almost through it to the worktop beneath.

 

He wanted to scream. _I can’t. I can’t do this. What if he suspects – what if he sees me and knows what I did? What if_ – his breath heaved – _what if I get… aroused… again?_ No – surely no. Not now he knew what it was. Who it was. He’d never found a thought more repellent in his life. But watching it again – _hearing_ it again – now that he couldn’t put the throttling down to breath-play, the muzzy screaming down to bad acting, the punch down to a porn-star just pretending to be dominant… he wanted to be sick.

 

 _But Martin needs you_ , his conscience nagged. _You OWE him_.

 

 _I can’t do it_.

 

 _You have to do it_.

 

Martin’s face, pleading, frightened. Making the request had clearly cost him dearly. Martin, whose pride was everything to him. Who hadn’t wanted Douglas to see his room. Who was more vulnerable in front of Douglas than he’d ever imagined anyone could be. Whom he wanted to protect more than anything in the universe at this moment – even from himself, if necessary. But who was he to say what was appropriate? A week ago he’d never have questioned his own judgement – he was Douglas always-right Richardson, after all. But now – now…

 

The conflict warring inside him was making him physically tremble. The same emotion he’d slapped himself for a week ago suddenly reared up – he wanted to hold Martin, to soothe and gentle – Christ. He wanted Martin to comfort _him_. That wouldn’t happen. Could never happen.

 

He released his tight grip on the knife, leaving it standing, impaled in the wood, quivering lightly. It may as well have been skewering his heart.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Douglas pushed open the door to the lounge. Martin looked up at him, uncertainly. The television was on, but Martin had been gazing off into the distance – Douglas would have put money on Martin not even being able to tell him what genre the programme was, he had so plainly been elsewhere in his head. Douglas tried to smile, but could feel it coming out wrong – all teeth and stretched lips – so he hastily aborted the attempt. Martin looked even more unnerved – who could blame him?

 

“I’ve had a think,” Douglas ventured, gingerly perching on the arm of the sofa, at a careful distance from Martin.

 

“Oh?” The voice would have sounded airy, had it not been for the slight tremor betraying the stress beneath it.

 

“Watching the video… it’s clearly important to you.” Martin nodded just once, watching him wrestle with the words. “And I don’t have to agree with you. Just support you.” He paused, taking a steadying breath. “So I’ll meet Herc’s condition.”

 

“ _Thank_ you –“ Martin gasped out, rapidly. Douglas held up a hand, stopping him going on.

 

“I’ll meet it, with two conditions of my own.” Martin looked wary, questioning. “First,” Douglas began to list on his fingers. “First, I will be in the room with you. I said I wasn’t going anywhere, and I meant it. But – I won’t look at the screen. I… I can’t watch it again – not now that I know that it’s you –“ _Steady_ , his brain warned him. _Don’t betray your feelings – the distress.._. He hesitated, ensuring his voice wouldn’t quaver when he spoke again. “Second – in exchange for watching the video, I want you to promise that you’ll see the counsellor that the hospital recommended. Once. Once is all I insist upon.”

 

Martin appeared to be weighing up the proposition.

 

“Once? Only?”

 

“That’s all I’ll hold you to. If you don’t want to go back after, you’re an adult – you have the right to decide. But I want you to at least experiment with some professional help.” Hastily, so Martin wouldn’t read this as a rejection, he added, “It’s not because I – or anyone else – don’t want to help you. We’re all here, whatever you need.” Martin was twisting his hands again, fingers fiddling a complex pattern in his lap. “It’s just that we aren’t experts. And you might find that that’s what you need, after something like this.”

 

Martin didn’t look at him. “Everyone will think I’m pathetic. Needing a trick cyclist*.”

 

Douglas sighed. “Needing a psychiatrist isn’t pathetic, Martin. It wouldn’t be pathetic to get a chiropractor to your back if you’d slipped a disc, would it?”

 

Slowly, Martin shook his head.

 

“Then it’s just as sensible to get an expert opinion when your mind has been… wounded.” Martin still looked disbelieving, so Douglas continued. “Do you think _I’m_ pathetic?”

 

Martin looked taken aback. “Of course not.”

 

“Well, I saw a counsellor for a year, a while ago. To stop drinking. It’s different from psychiatry, anyway. Just space. Space to talk, and be listened to, and not judged.”

 

It took a while, but eventually Martin seemed to agree. “OK,” he mumbled.

 

“Good.” Douglas handed him a piece of paper with a date, time and address scribbled on it. “I’ve just made you an appointment online, for three days’ time. Keep it.”

 

Martin wavered for a second. “Will you… will you come with me?”

 

“Of course.” Douglas was surprised by the request. He couldn’t get used to Martin actually appearing to want him to be around. The feeling of being needed, of being of comfort, was one he’d not had in years. _You’re getting sentimental, you fool_ , he chastised himself. _Stop it now. This instant._ _Change the subject_. “Shall we text Herc, then?”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Douglas logged on to his computer in his study, Martin hovering tensely behind him. He opened his email, unpleasantly amazed at how much the simple ‘1 Unread Message’ text appearing caused him to flash back to sitting in his kitchen, seven days ago, before everything went wrong. He gave no outward sign of his early discomfiture, but clicked through to open Herc’s message. It was a link to a secure cloud storage site. Douglas stood up, making way for Martin to sit in the chair, and flicked out the lights, leaving the room illuminated just by the laptop’s bluish glow.

 

“Shall I get you a stool?” Martin asked, seeming unwilling to take the seat from him.

 

“No,” Douglas didn’t want to be on the same level as the computer screen. He didn’t want the temptation. Or the possibility of catching even an accidental glance of what was happening; his memories were bad enough, without refreshing them. Instead, he sat on the floor, leaning back against the desk drawers, at 180 degrees to the way Martin was facing.

 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright down there?” Martin sounded flustered, as if ATC had asked them to enter an unexpected hold.

 

“I’ll be fine. Sit.”

 

Martin took the swivel chair, pulling himself forwards slightly. He looked down at Douglas, whose head was now at his knee height. Douglas met his eyes – saw how scared they looked. His heart felt like a cold hand had gripped it. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.

 

Martin held his gaze, regretfully. “I’m sorry. I do.”

 

Douglas knew that he was not going to change his mind. He nodded, folding his knees up and hugging them. More than anything he wanted to hide his face, as Martin had by the Suspension Bridge, but he couldn’t; he needed to watch over his captain, to ensure that he was alright…

 

Martin took two deep breaths. Leaned forward. Hit the link.

 

The sound of three Russian voices filled the darkened room. Douglas’ stomach churned. The bantering tone, with the knowledge of what was about to happen, caused a slow, dark coil of fury to tangle in his chest. He chanced a glance up at Martin, who had both arms clutched round his waist, as if for protection, his eyes strangely narrowed as he took in the scene in front of him.

 

“What are they saying?” Martin asked, his voice seeming loud in the quiet room.

 

“I don’t know… I don’t speak Russian.”

 

Martin’s eyebrows suddenly shot up. “That’s what _he_ said. About me.” He pointed, presumably at one of the topless men. Douglas didn’t turn round, kept his attention focused on Martin’s face instead.

 

“You remember?”

 

“Not… exactly.” Martin frowned, distressed. “But… I know the voices.” He twitched. Kept watching.

 

Douglas heard the chatter stop on the playback. Knew what would happen next. _Martin’s body, carried in, bound to the container_ … He knew the instant that the two men brought Martin’s hooded form into the picture, without even looking at it – Martin’s hands balled into sudden fists, which he shoved underneath his ribs as if trying to do a peculiar Heimlich manoeuvre. His face flicked, just once, and then it was blank again, watching… Douglas could hear the clink of metal on metal. The chains being applied.

 

“It was cold.” Martin’s voice made Douglas jump. “On my back.”

 

Douglas didn’t know how to respond. Martin opened his mouth, as if to speak again, but then took in something on the screen. He instead slammed his teeth together, tightening his jaw.

 

 _Fatso’s stroking him_. Douglas knew Martin was watching himself get hard.

 

A tiny muscle was jumping in Martin’s cheek. Douglas couldn’t look at it. But he also couldn’t block out the moaning, coming tinnily from the laptop’s speakers. Martin, moaning. How had he not recognized the sound of his captain, the first time? Now he knew it was him, it was obvious… Although perhaps that was because of the number of times Douglas had now been awoken by those same moans, every single night.

 

Then Douglas heard the choked gasp, as Burly slammed his hand on to Martin’s throat – the hoarse, rasping, panting for breath. Almost unconsciously, Martin raised a hand from his ribs, felt his throat, tenderly.

 

“Does it still hurt?” Douglas spoke without meaning to.

 

Martin spoke as if from far away. “Not there. Anymore.” He lapsed back into silence, the flickering light playing across his face, making his features look weird and unearthly. The panting on the playback was louder, now, clearer – the chokehold had been released.

 

Martin’s eyes hadn’t budged from one particular spot on the film. Douglas couldn’t follow his gaze from this angle, but he knew enough to guess where Martin was looking. The lower half of the screen. The erection they’d coaxed out of him. Martin’s mouth abruptly twisted, curling at the edge, abhorrence apparent. And Douglas knew Martin too well to be under any illusions – this was the captain disgusted with himself.

 

“You couldn’t help that,” he said, as resoloutely as he could manage.

 

Martin’s eyes met his, held for a second, broke away. He saw no belief there. He wanted to stand up, slam the laptop shut, press Martin’s face into his chest, hide him – stop him before it was too late… _What am I thinking_? It was all too late. All of it.

 

Martin’s eyes had narrowed to slits again. Douglas guessed that the third man had begun his involvement, fingering and stretching Martin’s arse. The whimpering sounds he could hear were causing images to cycle rapidly through his mind, making him clutch more tightly at his knees.

 

He hadn’t realized just how long that fingering had seemed to go on for. Douglas was torn, wanting to speed it all up, but knowing what the end of the film held and so wanting time to stop too.

 

Martin was still intent on the video. Douglas knew the second that the scene changed, moving to handheld shots – not simply because the light playing across Martin’s face went out for a millisecond before returning, but because that was when he saw Martin begin to fall apart.

 

The high-pitched keen as film-Martin was penetrated made Douglas’ hands fly to his ears before he allowed them to drop away. Even that rapid movement didn’t disturb Martin’s focus, his eyes not budging from the torture in front of him. Those eyes were changing, though – Douglas could read the revulsion and the horror that Martin had been suppressing.

 

And then Martin winced, the first time he’d flinched. Douglas heard Martin’s first, sleepy screams, the hit, the barked order and its acceptance. A flashback so vivid he sensed he could touch it. _Muscles, shoving Martin’s legs wide, wide apart… pounding in_. Douglas felt as if he was having his limbs torn off, one by one. Watching Martin go through this was pain beyond pain – like watching a friend have skin sanded off, one piece at a time. He had begun to shake in earnest – or was that Martin? Or both of them? Nothing would keep still. Martin’s eyes were wide, filled with dishonour…

 

The sickening sounds from the film were increasing. It was building to its climax. Nausea clutched at Douglas’ stomach. He wanted to run away, to hide, to never think about this again – but Martin – Martin’s fists were balled so tight that his skin stretched, blanched pure white, over his knuckles. He was watching Muscles come on him, Douglas knew by the ecstatic gasping.

 

And then it would be Burly, ejaculating just where his face was under the hood. Martin’s nose wrinkled, baring his teeth. He looked wild – animalistic –

 

Even knowing it was nearly done, Douglas couldn’t take any more. He buried his face in his arms, tried to hunch his shoulders round his ears – absented himself mentally from the room. _I can’t do it, I can’t, I can’t…_ The grunting climax playing behind him was shuddering to an end.

 

 _Semen, sliding down Martin’s testicles_ … At the disgusting memory, he was nearly sick. He physically retched, but managed to keep it together somehow. It took him a few moments – several seconds at least – before he came back to himself, suddenly aware of a harsh, unexpected sound that was very vivid, proximate to him. He couldn’t place it to begin with – couldn’t understand –

 

And then it hit him. The gasping, choking sounds – they weren’t from the video anymore. It had finished, at long last. The ripping, tearing noise – Martin was sobbing – convulsive, grating sobs that shook his entire, slender frame from head to toe. His arms were still wrapped tightly around his stomach, and he rocked to and fro, face crumpled, wet with tears.

 

Douglas leapt up without another thought, his own torment banished, forgotten, in the face of Martin’s appalling suffering. He slammed the computer shut without looking at it and hastily flicked the lights back on.

 

“Martin – Martin –“ He didn’t know what to do. What to say.

 

Martin shook his head, the cries still pouring from him, seemingly unstoppable. All Douglas could do was make soft, soothing noises, not daring to reach out to him after all the times he’d flinched away. He wanted to hug him, to hold him close… but it was impossible…

 

Gradually, after long, long minutes, Martin began to hiccup himself into silence. Douglas could sense the second that he came back to himself again – a wary look suddenly sprang into Martin’s eyes, as if he realized he’d let his guard down and shouldn’t have done.

 

“No,” he said, firmly. “Don’t you dare feel ashamed for crying.”

 

Martin stared at him, a last tear trickling down his chin. He moved to wipe his face for the first time, finally unwrapping his arms from his middle. His hand smeared his face, catching the moisture, but leaving vivid red trails across the white-pink blotches of his cheeks.

 

“What the –“ Douglas was startled. He grabbed at Martin’s hand without thinking about it. Martin, taken by surprise, instinctively snatched it away, but winced, pained. He spread out both hands, palms up. Little rivulets of blood stood out, starkly crimson, where he’d dug his fingernails into his skin with the force of his revulsion.

 

Douglas hissed. “That looks sore.” He was gone from the room, returning in a flash with damp kitchen roll. He hesitated. “May I?”

 

Martin looked at him. Took a deep breath. Nodded.

 

With an enormous sense of responsibility, Douglas knelt at his feet, consciously attempting to make himself as physically unimposing as possible. He lightly placed his left hand under Martin’s, supporting it, feeling the fine bones shifting delicately under warm skin. With his right hand, he softly wielded the moist tissue, patting away the blood, cleansing the crescent incisions where Martin’s nails had made them.

 

“Would you like plasters?” Douglas moved to the other hand, feeling Martin tremble as he touched him, causing a peculiar swooping sensation in his chest that left him dizzy.

 

Martin shook his head no. He allowed Douglas to finish before whipping his hands back, wrapping his arms back round his stomach, defensively.

 

“Are you… alright?”

 

The longest of lengthy pauses, before Martin responded, quietly, so Douglas had to strain to hear.

 

“I couldn’t have stopped it.”

 

Was Martin trying to convince Douglas, or himself? Either way… “No,” he said, with as much firmness as he could muster.

 

Martin shivered. “Thank you. For enduring it. Again.”

 

“Did it help?” Douglas felt empty, completely drained.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

They stayed there for a long time, Douglas kneeling, Martin hunched. Not touching. But close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * trick cyclist = British slang, an intentional malapropism for psychiatrist. http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/trick_cyclist


	12. Parabolic Trajectory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin seeks professional help, with Douglas' support. Can he go back to GERTI?

Three days later, Martin wandered down to breakfast with Douglas feeling as if he had a nest of snakes fighting in his insides. He’d never been so nervous in his life, not even at his seventh attempt at the CPL.

 

Douglas looked up as he entered the kitchen, giving him a reassuring smile. “What can I get you?”

 

“S’alright.” Martin perched on the edge of a chair. “Not hungry.”

 

“You need to eat,” Douglas frowned. “Try something.”

 

Martin shook his head. “What time do we need to leave?”

 

“Ten minutes.”

 

Martin nodded, swallowed hard. His fists were scrunched up again and he shut his eyes, trying to concentrate on breathing slowly, so the other man wouldn’t notice his tension.

 

Douglas cleared his throat, causing Martin to look at him again, feeling a little bit calmer as he met his first officer’s soothing eyes. Douglas took his glasses off and folded the paper he’d been reading.

 

“You need distracting. You seemed a bit better after that day you spent playing games with Arthur…” He creased his forehead in apparent thought. “How about… I know!” He nodded. “The end-of-the-word game with capital cities. Last letter of the previous one becomes the first letter of the next.”

 

Martin surprised himself by almost smiling, despite the butterflies fluttering uncomfortably in his stomach. _I’ve missed this_. “Ottawa,” he began.

 

“Athens,” returned Douglas, without blinking.

 

“Um…” Martin wracked his brains.

 

“Oh, come on, Captain! You flew there… ooh, six weeks ago!”

 

It was ages since he’d heard Douglas’ oh-so-normal teasing tone, and warmth and familiarity spread through him pleasantly, pushing back the tide of rising panic that had been threatening to swamp him.

 

 _Aha! Got it!_ “Santiago,” he rapped out, proudly.

 

“Another ‘o’… hmm.” Douglas looked momentarily stumped, and Martin felt a little glow of pleasure at having made him think, until – “Oslo.”

 

 _Damn_. “Three ‘o’s out of four turns isn’t fair!”

 

“ _Martin_.” Douglas’ usual teasing voice was back. “When have I _ever_ played fair?” He smirked, evidently relishing Martin’s flummoxed expression. “Get thinking.”

 

“Um…” Martin’s brain was completely engaged. He was concentrating so hard on beating his opponent that he barely noticed Douglas ushering him into the car to head to the appointment. He cudgeled his memory the whole way on the drive, finally almost laughing in triumph as he rang out “Ouagadougou!”

 

Douglas chuckled. He was turning the car, pulling into a car park in the outskirts of Fitton. “Now, Captain – do you mean Ouagadougou, or Palermo? Because if it’s the former, I _believe_ you should have said ‘Ouagadougou Ouagadougou’. You never rescinded that Guspini briefing, you know…”

 

His voice faded from Martin’s ears as he realized that they’d arrived. Nerves abruptly flooded his stomach again and he tensed up. He suddenly noticed that Douglas had stopped speaking and was looking at him with concern.

 

“You’re OK, Martin. Just breathe.”

 

Martin did so, heaving air in and out, trying not to make an idiot of himself.

 

Douglas carried on. “We’re a few minutes early – do you want to sit in the car, try and relax a bit? Or we can go in, if you prefer – get some coffee in the waiting room?”

 

Martin couldn’t make a coherent decision. “Coffee,” he managed, trying to resist the urge to tell Douglas that he wasn’t doing it, wasn’t going in to be _analysed_ …

 

“OK.” Douglas regarded him steadily. “You can do this, Martin.”

 

Martin jerked his head, a terse assent. They got out of the car and walked over to the low-key office building with a discreet sign reading ‘ _Hills Psychotherapy Centre’_ in neat, cursive script. Douglas paused, his hand hovering at the door.

 

“Ready?”

 

“… Yes.”

 

They went in.

 

* * *

 

Martin was finding it difficult to sit still in the waiting room. His leg, crossed over the other, jiggled frantically as he bounced his ankle up and down. Douglas kept shooting him sidelong glances – he knew he must look mad, being so jittery, but he couldn’t help it. Yes, the receptionist had been friendly, hadn’t cast him a look of disdain as he’d half expected – and the waiting room was quiet and tranquil, stacks of magazines spread neatly on a central table, easy chairs positioned round it – but the discreet box of tissues next to the gossip publications made Martin’s insides curdle. _What if I’m expected to cry_? He didn’t think he could do that in front of anybody he didn’t know. He hadn’t shed tears in front of anyone at all for years – with the exception of Douglas, the other night. He felt stupid, uncertain. Hated not knowing what was expected of him.

 

“Do you want me to come in after all?” Douglas asked. They’d agreed the night before that he would wait outside while Martin had the initial meeting with the therapist.

 

Martin shook his head. “They said it wasn’t recommended…” _Be brave_ , he chastised himself internally.

 

“OK, no problem.” Douglas returned to the magazine he was half-perusing. “I’ll be right here when you get out, though.”

 

Martin felt a deep flash of gratitude. Knowing Douglas was with him – even if he had to wait outside today – was an immense comfort. There was something about his presence that now acted like a calming drug on Martin’s system, soothing him better than anything else.

 

He used Douglas’ apparent distraction with the magazine to study him covertly. He looked tired, a bit drawn and pale. Martin felt terribly guilty for keeping him up, for all the trouble he kept causing him. He couldn’t believe that Douglas had let him stay in his house for over a week, taking up room, eating his food, taxing his emotional resources… _I should leave_. But the thought made him shiver, the idea of returning to his lonely attic feeling abhorrent to him.

 

 _You’ll have to go sometime_ , his conscience chided him. Nervousness turned his stomach. _Not today though_ , he concluded. _Not today_.

 

The waiting room door opened with a slight creak. Both Martin and Douglas turned to look. A small, blonde woman in her early forties was standing there, a notepad and file in her hand. She smiled at both of them welcomingly.

 

“Martin Crieff?” she inquired.

 

Taking a deep breath, Martin stood, his hands clenched at his sides. “That’s me.”

 

“Great. Follow me, Martin.” She smiled again, turning to lead him out of the room.

 

Martin hesitated, then followed, shoulders so tense he felt as if they were about to touch his ears. As he reached the door, Douglas’ voice, calm and gentle, reached him.

 

“I’m right here, remember?”

 

His shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. He followed the petite lady into a small room. She closed the door, sat down in a comfy chair and indicated he should do the same.

 

He took his seat, knotting his fingers in his lap. Couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes until she spoke, her voice kind.

 

“So, Captain Crieff.” He nervously looked up. “My name is Anna. How can I help you today?”

 

* * *

 

50 minutes later, Martin left the small room, shaking hands with Anna as he went. His thoughts were spinning, and he was quaking a bit, but mostly he was filled with relief that it was over, that he’d met Douglas’ condition, that he could relax at last after the past three days of being nervously strung out inside in anticipation.

 

Anna waved at him as she turned to go into the office. “If you’d like to follow up with my suggestion,” she said, “do get in touch with reception, and they’ll be able to book you in.”

 

Martin nodded, managing to bleat a quick “Thanks”.

 

She smiled at him. “I hope to see you again.”

 

He felt himself blushing. She’d been so understanding – so nice, without being patronizing – but was this really what he wanted?

 

 _Maybe I’ll talk it through with Douglas_. Martin had appreciated that Douglas hadn’t tried to push him to make multiple appointments – could see the logic of trying it once without committing to months of counseling. He trusted Douglas not to force him down a path that wasn’t right. It made sense to speak with him; this had been his idea, after all. Well, and the hospital’s, he supposed.

 

Martin paused outside the waiting room door as he reached it. He realized that he could hear Douglas speaking, heatedly. But to whom? Quietly, he peered in.

 

Douglas was on the phone. “Carolyn. It’s impossible.” He sounded irritated beyond belief. “I don’t _care_ what Mr Alyakin wants. If Herc can’t do it, then he’ll just have to put up with a single pilot for this trip.” He paused, listening to her reply – Martin could hear the tinny squeak that meant gale force nine or ten from her end.

 

Douglas cut her off mid-rant. “I _won’t_. You know where he is? He –“ Carolyn was evidently interrupting him this time. He was listening intently, posture hunched up in a position that meant he was standing his ground.

 

Martin suddenly realized that he shouldn’t be eavesdropping. He stepped into the room, Douglas noticing him for the first time. He raised his eyebrows, questioningly. Martin tried to give a small smile – felt like he just about managed it.

 

“I’ve got to go. Martin’s here.”

 

Martin just about caught Carolyn’s reply _– then ASK HIM -_ before Douglas cut her off. He stood up, looking reassured that Martin appeared about ten times less agitated than when he’d gone in nearly an hour ago.

 

“How’d it go?”

 

Martin nodded, tentatively. “Yes… OK.” He didn’t really want to talk about it here, even though the waiting room was empty. “Let’s go.”

 

Douglas walked out beside him, both of them nodding to the receptionist as they exited.

 

“What does Carolyn want you to ask me?” Martin tried to keep his voice light, striving for casualness.

 

Douglas sighed. “Oh – you heard that?” Martin nodded, looking curiously at him. “Well, don’t worry. Mr oligarch Alyakin is throwing his toys out of the pram, apparently – not that I care.”

 

“How come?”

 

“Well, Herc and I were supposed to be flying one of his best clients to Cannes at four o’clock today, don’t know if you remember?”

 

Martin shook his head. He was sure Douglas had told him, but over the last few days he’d struggled to retain information as his worries and flashbacks tormented him. Nothing had seemed to stick in his brain.

 

Douglas carried on. “Well, Herc’s just had a phone call to say he’s needed back at SwissAir – one of the other pilots has gone sick and there’s no one but him to cover, even though he’s supposed to be on leave while he works out where to live.” He made a disparaging snort. “Apparently the berk’s capitulated and has agreed, in order to ‘keep them sweet’.” He sketched the quotation marks in the air with his fingers, shaking his head in disapproval.

 

They reached the car, Douglas unlocking it for them to get in. Martin pondered. “So Mr Alyakin needs another pilot to keep his customer happy?”

 

Douglas nodded. “But I told Carolyn he can stuff it. The passenger doesn't need to know how many qualified pilots he's got at the pointy end. He’ll never spot any difference.”

 

“Can’t Arthur pretend to be Noel again?” Martin wondered aloud.

 

“No, Arthur’s staying with you at my house tonight.” Douglas started the engine and began to reverse out of his space. “It’s not a problem. Carolyn will just have to stew.”

 

Martin stared out of the window as they drove home, turning things over in his mind, quietly. By the time they crunched back on to Douglas’ graveled driveway, he was decided.

 

“Thanks for coming with me,” he offered, first, really meaning it. “I couldn’t have done it, otherwise.” He felt a blush threatening, but Douglas looked pleased, if surprised, at being acknowledged.

 

“No problem. Anytime.” Douglas unclipped his seatbelt and made to get out.

 

“Just a sec.” Martin stopped him. Douglas looked over at him inquiringly as he took a deep breath. “I can solve Carolyn’s problem.”

 

Douglas looked instantly cross. “You don’t have to do that. You’ve got enough to think about.”

 

“Yes.” Martin raised a placating hand. “I’ve got _too much_ to think about.” _How can I explain_? “I don’t want to stay behind today. I know it’ll just make all my thoughts keep whizzing about if I’ve got nothing to focus on, especially after that appointment.”

 

“Arthur’s going to play games with you – that diverted you last time.”

 

“I know – and I’m really grateful… it’s just that I really feel like I want some normality back.” He looked Douglas in the eye, trying to convince him with the openness of his expression. “This morning – playing that stupid game with you – that felt good, it was perfect – because it was as if nothing had happened. So I could forget it for a while.”

 

“You’re in no fit state to operate, Martin. You haven’t had enough sleep, for one thing.”

 

“So I won’t operate. I’ll leave that to you. You’d be doing that anyway, without me. It’s not a long flight – what, 90 minutes? All I want is to be back on GERTI – to try making things more like how they were.”

 

He could see Douglas wavering. “What did the therapist say about work?”

 

“Not a lot, really. Said it was up to me to choose when to try to go back,” replied Martin, honestly.

 

Douglas always knew when he was being told the truth. He bit his lip. Martin watched him weighing up the request.

 

“Just let me back in my uniform. Back in the flight deck.” Martin wouldn’t let himself think about why he’d been away from it. “I really miss flying, Douglas. You know me. I just want to try being back in the air again.”

 

“You’re sure it won’t be too much?” Douglas still looked very worried. “You’re certain you’re not doing this just to give Carolyn an easy life?”

 

“Absolutely not.” Martin tried to smile at him. “When have I ever done that?”

 

“Well,” replied Douglas grudgingly, “I suppose that’s true.” He sighed, scratched his chin. “If you’re sure. Let’s give it a go.”

 

Martin felt a little throb of victory in his chest. “I’ll call Carolyn and let her know.”

 

Douglas regarded him sardonically. “She will be _delighted_. Sickening.” He was joking – just.

 

Martin genuinely found a grin to give, which seemed to reassure Douglas. “And on the way to Cannes – perhaps I could… ask your advice about some stuff?” he posed, tentatively, waiting for Douglas to gloat.

 

“Hmm… my consultancy fees are high.” _Thank goodness_. If Douglas was risking a joke, things must be improving a bit. His tone became less mocking, sounding genuine, a touch intrigued. “Yes, of course. I’ll try and help.”

 

“Great. Just need to iron my uniform, then. Can I borrow a shirt?”

 

* * *

 

Six hours later, Douglas parked at the airfield. Martin was fiddling with the edge of his jacket compulsively, but got out and walked steadily into the Portacabin. He wanted this to be normal. He wanted to get rid of the last month. He knew if he glanced at Douglas he’d see worry, so he didn’t look. Taking a breath, he went in through the door.

 

“Afternoon, Carolyn,” he said, as professionally as he could manage - which, given that he was Martin, was still very professionally indeed. _Phew. The client’s already here. No one can ask me anything._ He had been hoping that would be the case – in fact, had purposefully delayed their departure by unnecessarily re-ironing the (rather too baggy) shirt Douglas had lent him in the absence of his own – he hadn’t had time to do any laundry after his last flight and knew all of his were in his linen basket. They’d then had to stop at his flat to pick up his jacket, which thankfully didn’t require anything doing to it. And, finally, they were here.

 

“Good afternoon,” the man they were due to fly said, smoothly addressing him. “You must be the captain, yes?”

 

 _Oh God._ Martin thought he’d mentally prepared himself for everything – had carefully thought through the moment he’d step into the office, onto the apron, into the flight deck, probing his likely responses, squashing the flickers of panic… but he hadn’t readied himself for their client to be _Russian_. His stomach rolled and he felt sweat break out on his brow.

 

Stupid – stupid. The majority of Mr Alyakin’s clients were from Russia. He had just completely forgotten. Hadn’t been prepared for how it could affect him.

 

The man was looking at him, still expecting a response. Douglas stepped forward and saved him, his suave tones sounding perfectly friendly and normal as he spoke. “Good afternoon, sir. A pleasure to welcome you to MJN today.”

 

Martin shook himself. Managed to choke out a greeting, then excused himself to go and do the walk-round. (Not that he’d actually do it; just anything to leave the room.)

 

He felt a tiny bit better again as he took in the familiar, squat shape of GERTI, sitting on the tarmac in front of him. He wandered up to the plane, rested a hand on her cool, metal skin.

 

“Hello, old girl,” he said, softly. “Miss me?” He looked at her affectionately, before shaking himself. _Don’t be insane. You’re talking to a plane._ Still… it was nice to find her – his command – just as normal. Even if that normal was a little scruffy and dilapidated-looking. She wouldn’t treat him differently. She was still the same as ever.

 

Climbing the steps, Martin stepped on board. He took a moment, breathing in the familiar smell – somewhere between the slight mustiness of GERTI’s usually pressurized air and a lingering scent of Arthur’s cooking. Not particularly pleasant or noteworthy to a casual visitor, but to Martin, it felt like home. He ran his hand proprietorially over the back of the seats in row 1, before turning to go into the flight deck.

 

He went inside, steeling himself again – knowing what he did now about how he’d been dumped there threatening to overwhelm him for a brief second, but he felt a powerful jolt of anger that pushed the panic away. _This is MINE. Not theirs._ He was blowed if he was about to let them win. Lowering himself into his chair, he felt more defiant than he ever had. _I can do this_.

 

A small thump behind him announced Douglas, pushing the cockpit door open. He’d obviously extricated himself as soon as possible to come and check on Martin, who spoke quickly to forestall the question.

 

“I’m fine.” A tiny hint of triumph as he turned to look steadily at his first officer. He could do this, was doing this. He didn’t need to be babied.

 

Douglas raised his eyebrows. “Sure?”

 

Martin nodded, turning back to begin to flick the switches that would awaken GERTI. He wouldn’t operate – just in case – but there was no harm in trying to help. He heard Douglas sigh softly behind him as he left to go and complete his visual inspection. His breathing was fast, feverish. _I can DO this_.

 

…………………….

 

“Post take-off checks complete.” Douglas leaned back, and Martin caught him glancing over again.

 

“I’m fine,” said Martin, for what felt like the twentieth time. His stomach had leapt as GERTI soared up into the sky, and for a few moments he’d recaptured the pure joy that filled his heart every single time he was allowed to launch into clear air, nothing filling his vision but clouds and pure blue sky. And then he’d caught Douglas shooting him sneaky sideways looks – checking he wasn’t going to flip out, act madly – and his spirits had sunk into his shoes. _How can I get things to go back to how they were_?

 

It was one of the things that he’d asked the therapist this morning. He’d never realized it would bother him so much – that he wasn’t just dealing with what had actually happened to him, but with the change in the people he loved best as well. It was why he hadn’t told his family – he absolutely didn’t need them to alter how they acted around him. Well, that and he didn’t think his pride could stand them – especially Simon – pitying him, worrying about him. He was _fine_. Anna hadn’t seemed surprised, and she certainly hadn’t insisted he tell them, as he’d feared she might. He’d… not liked her, exactly – what he had had to explain to her caused him to put up instant barriers between him and her – _don’t let her get too close, don’t read into her reactions_ – but she’d been patient, hadn’t betrayed shock or disgust. She’d just… listened.

 

It had been almost a relief to not have to worry about hurting her. He’d known when talking to the others that his pain was also wounding them, because for some strange reason they all seemed to care for him. He hated seeing the effect of his emotions on theirs. It wasn’t that he wanted them not to care, exactly – but he had enough to agonise over without then feeling even more guilty that he’d upset them afterwards.

 

Douglas had seemed to grasp this, in the last few days. The morning after they’d watched… Martin’s brain stuttered… the _video_ , he’d shown obvious surprise when Martin had breezed into the kitchen. Martin had purposefully acted far more normally than he had been all month, whereas Douglas had evidently anticipated a shell of a man. Had watched him cautiously all day, with apparently increasing alarm at his newfound light-heartedness.

 

By the evening, he’d spoken up. “Martin…”

 

Martin could tell dangerous territory was approaching. “I’m fine.”

 

Douglas had cast him a worried stare. “You’re not.”

 

 _I have to be_. _I won’t hurt you anymore_. Martin had never expected to see a look like that he’d glimpsed on his first officer’s face, the night before. As Douglas had cleaned his hands, focusing on the task, he hadn’t guarded his expression as closely as he had been – perhaps because the footage was still so vivid in his brain. What Martin had seen was – well, it was as if Douglas was burning inside. As if a cruel hand was pulling his body to bits. Martin had never imagined that Douglas – _Douglas_ , of all people – could look so tormented. Especially not by things that were happening to him, Martin. Sudden guilt had wracked him, even overtaking the writhing of his insides that had followed what he’d just seen.

 

 _I’m hurting you_. He’d wanted to reach out, to comfort – to caress Douglas’ cheek as he knelt before him, so tenderly attending to those stupid small cuts. _Madness_. _Impossible_. So, he’d snatched his hands away, before they could do anything stupid – like betray the devastating affection flooding through him, which was even blunting the hard edges of the spiky pain that was needling him, blurring the images of what the men had done, seconds ago so fresh in their agony – now, temporarily, distant in the face of such solicitude.

 

 _I owe you_. He’d made up his mind to be fine from then on, starting with the breezy breakfast the next morning.

 

But Douglas had then been apparently taken aback, rather than reassured, by his behavior. By the evening, when Martin had protested yet again that he was OK, Martin caught the quickly calculating look that had run over Douglas’ face. _Of course Douglas would realise what was going on_. The man was too bloody perceptive not to clock Martin’s new efforts not to hurt him. And it seemed to cause him more pain for some reason, judging by the spasm that jumped over his features, to Martin’s surprise.

 

But he’d only let that show for a brief second. Since then, Douglas had made more of an effort to treat Martin normally – efforts that had reached their zenith with that word game this morning. It would take time for Douglas to stop worrying about him, he knew; but Martin would do anything, everything to ensure he did.

 

He’d been silent a long time, he realized. Better say something. Keep Douglas feeling better. Hmm – he’d looked pleased when Martin had proposed asking his advice, earlier.

 

“Douglas?”

 

“Mm?” Douglas snapped out of whatever reverie he’d been in.

 

“Can I… ask you something?”

 

“Course.”

 

Martin took a deep breath. He didn’t want to go too deeply into what had transpired between him and Anna, but… “Well, it’s about this morning.”

 

Douglas had got that slightly worried look again. “Sure.” He cleared his throat. “Was it… OK? Really?”

 

Martin wanted to assuage his concern. “Yes, it really was.” That felt honest. “It wasn’t as – err – scary – as I thought it might be.”

 

Douglas relaxed a little. “I’m glad you went.”

 

“Me too.” Martin was amazed to hear himself say it. But although he hadn’t really planned to do so, he thought it was probably true. He continued. “She asked me what had happened, so I gave her the page I wrote – you were right, by the way, that was easier than saying it out loud –“ He waited for Douglas to throw in one of his usual comments about how he was _always_ right, but nothing was forthcoming. Blinking in surprise – _I handed that one to you on a plate_ – he pressed on. “She asked me some questions – which was difficult –“ he felt his pulse speed up at the memory – “but I suppose I managed to answer them.”

 

“Good.” Douglas sounded hesitant. “Well done.”

 

“But… her recommendation out of the session was a bit… well, puzzling, I suppose.”

 

Douglas raised a curious eyebrow by way of question.

 

“She asked if I’d like to consider something called EMDR.”

 

Douglas looked perplexed. “I’ve not heard of it.”

 

“Nor had I. Apparently, it stands for –“ Martin unfolded the slip of paper from his pocket, read the information written there. “Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing.”

 

Douglas still shook his head. “You’ll have to explain a bit further.”

 

Martin sighed. “The way she explained it to me is that sometimes, with… trauma… the brain doesn’t process it like other memories. That it’s a bit like a record with a scratch, making the needle jump, so it can’t move forward.” Douglas hummed, to show he was following. “And they think that results in rapid, jerky eye movements as you recall the events. It’s as if your mind is frozen, stuck in the processing… process. Whereas if you’re guided through other eye movements while thinking about the memories that seems to somehow disrupt the freeze and allow evolution to take place.”

 

“I think I follow you…” Douglas sounded a bit uncertain.

 

“So… in these sessions, you’re asked a couple of basic questions about what happened, and then to focus on the event.” Just the thought of doing so made Martin flinch. He had spent weeks shying away from bringing the thoughts to mind as much as possible. “And as you do so, the therapist guides you through a series of eye movements. A bit like your body does naturally in REM sleep.”

 

“What’s the result?”

 

“She said that it would be as if things… receded. Became more distant, less immediate. If it works.”

 

“How do you feel about it?”

 

Martin shrugged, helpless indecision written on his features. “I don’t want to think about it… what happened. But she said that that’s a sign that I should.” He looked warily over at Douglas. “What do you think?”

 

“It sounds logical, I suppose.” Douglas looked back at him. “Before I give you a conclusive opinion, do you mind if I think it over?” He shot a quick half-smile at Martin, but his eyes were… sad. Was that – _guilt_? Martin was puzzled, couldn’t parse the expression before Douglas quickly looked away. “I’d like to do a bit of reading up. Generally, I’d trust their opinion – they’re professionals there – but as you say, no harm in weighing up your options.”

 

Martin settled back in his chair. _Douglas is on the case_. He felt reassured.

 

* * *

 

“Post-landing checklist complete.” Douglas flicked the switches to send GERTI smoothly to slumber, the engine noise dying away, the powerful throb winding down with a sigh. Martin felt like sighing himself. His first flight back with MJN – he’d done it. He gave Douglas a smile, hoping it didn’t look too shaky.

 

Arthur burst in. “You coming, chaps?” He beamed. All flight he’d been like an excitable terrier, so _so_ delighted to have Skip back on board. He’d even ordered a cheese tray for the occasion – a luxury that Martin had never previously known Carolyn spring for on a 90-minute trip. She’d been busy, of course, catering to their passenger’s every whim, so they hadn’t seen her during the flight, and she was off now, escorting him to the limousine waiting outside.

 

“Coming.” Martin stood up, stretched a bit. He heard Douglas following him and Arthur as they exited the plane on to the steps. Unusually, they were in a hangar overnight – Mr Alyakin’s client had apparently paid for one as he didn’t want to risk getting wet if it were to be raining when he disembarked. Martin shook his head at the thought of such profligacy, but then, who was he to complain? If it kept MJN’s nose above water – lost in thought, he descended, the regular noises of a small airfield surrounding him, clanks and beeps and metallic clunking. All normal.

 

Carolyn met them at the foot of the steps. “Alright?” She cast an especially wary eye at Martin, who sighed internally. _Can’t she see I’ve done it_?

 

“All fine,” Douglas responded, evenly, as if he knew what Martin’s reaction would be to the visible concern. He probably did.

 

“Good. Plane locked?” All three nodded. “Right then, to the hotel. _I_ need a drink.” She led the way towards the back of the hangar, where a door would lead them into the airport itself.

 

A much louder clanking noise sounded from behind them. Martin looked round, startled. Two airport workers were closing the enormous hangar doors, shutting out the bright sunlight that had been pouring in and illuminating the gloom of the interior. Darkness was descending, advancing on him rapidly – too quickly – his heart was racing…

 

He tried to take deep breaths. He’d stopped where he stood. A sudden flashback gripped at his soul. _Blackness – over my eyes – can’t see – too dark – they’re going to hurt me!_

 

“Martin?” Douglas’ voice sounded as if it was coming from a long way away, down a tunnel. His vision had contracted to pinpoints. Everything was screaming at him to run, to fight, _get away_ …

 

“Martin!” He knew he was hyperventilating. He covered his hands with his eyes, fell into a crouch. He was having a heart attack – couldn’t breathe –

 

He heard Douglas speak again, sharply. “Arthur – make them open those doors, NOW.” He heard Arthur’s footsteps run away, dashing off to the men, so many metres away in the huge space. His heart was bounding, he was sweating, wanted to be sick. Wanted the inky dark to recede.

 

Carolyn was speaking, now. He caught odd words in the flurry she was emitting, missing most of it, his ears full of the sound of his own rasping, panting breaths. “…matter… ambulance?”

 

 _No_. He couldn’t breathe – couldn’t think – the noise of the grinding doors was filling him, screaming metal harsh in the background – and the doors were still shutting, the light of the sun almost totally obscured now… He fell forwards, to his hands and knees, buried his head in his hands.

 

Somewhere, a long way off, he heard someone kneel down next to him – other footsteps clicking hurriedly away – Carolyn was leaving, they were all going to leave, he’d be alone, lost in the dark –

 

“Martin. Listen to me.” The soft voice permeated his consciousness. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

 

Adrenaline was screeching through his veins, nails on a blackboard. He wasn’t alright. He wasn’t safe.

 

“Open your eyes, Martin. It’s Douglas. Look at me.” Something in the voice was commanding him. He was used to doing what that voice recommended. Though his mind screamed against the instruction, his heart overrode it. He flickered his eyelids open, could hardly see. Douglas was immediately in front of him, filling his vision, familiar, what he knew. But the noise – the dark –

 

He coughed a breath – couldn’t catch any air – _a hand on my throat in the dark and I can’t breathe and I’m going to die and my hands are flapping uselessly_ – nearly shut his eyes again, fighting the order –

 

“Look at me. You’re safe, you’re OK –“

 

It was since the video: he’d started to remember, odd bits and pieces, flashes. He rocked back, on to his heels, straining to get more air into his hyperventilating lungs, feeling dizzy, like he was going to pass out. He was vaguely aware of Douglas shuffling even closer, the familiar smell of him cancelling out the scent of oil and grease that had been pressing in on his agitation. Still his breath wouldn’t work – he clutched at his throat convulsively. _Douglas – help –_

 

“Focus on me. On _me._ Martin.”

 

He tried. He really tried. Clutched at Douglas’ voice like a drowning man at a straw. Couldn’t quite manage it, couldn’t ground himself.

 

“You are with me. You. Are. Safe.” A hint of desperation in that voice, now.

 

Strong hands reached out – they were gripping his shoulders – not threatening – comforting – Martin focused on the sensation, trying to reject the dread, the horror, the all-consuming anxiety. The hands smoothed, but not sinuously, like those in his nightmares – these were calming, lengthy strokes, offering firm, consoling pressure. Stopping him shaking apart in Douglas’ hands.

 

 _Douglas’ hands_. The same that had mopped up his blood so carefully. That would protect him. The grating metal sound had quieted too – the doors had stopped closing. His breathing slowed, fractionally, and Douglas appeared to notice.

 

“Good, good – that’s it. Don’t gasp – breathe with me. In. Out.” Martin tried his best, stuttered, his brain shrieking at him to go faster, get more oxygen – “Slowly, now. In. Out. In. Out.” He focused hard on the voice, on the gentle pressure on his shoulders, soothing him. “That’s it… that’s it.”

 

Gradually, the shudders shaking him from head to toe stilled, his breath steadier, the terror receding. His vision cleared a little, and he managed to look up – saw Douglas, kneeling right in front of him, still making soft hushing noises, eyes wild with fear and concern and dread – _I’ve hurt you again_ – he felt as if he’d been stabbed.

 

He was dimly aware of Arthur, again standing nearby. Douglas looked up at where he must be. “Go and find your Mum, Arthur.” He looked back at Martin. “Tell her we won’t be needing that ambulance.”

 

“OK.” Arthur hurried off.

 

Martin quivered again. Douglas’ hands moved once more, running down his arms, holding him motionless. A tsunami of grief suddenly crashed over him and he couldn’t hold it back. He threw himself forward, not wanting Douglas – brilliant, inspiring, so-much-better-than-him Douglas – to see him dissolve. But he couldn’t suppress the sobs now shaking his frame.

 

“Shh, shh.” The strong hands hadn’t left him – were tugging him round, gently, pulling him, half-supine, into Douglas’ lap – into his hesitant embrace, testing the reaction. Martin knew he should panic – _don’t touch me don’t touch me_ – but to his shock, he could only summon up relief, feeling so cradled, so protected, the airfield shut out by those sturdy arms encircling him while he cried helplessly.

 

“I’m sorry – sorry –“ he choked, feeling Douglas shake his head where his chin was pressing into Martin’s hair.

 

“No need. You’re alright. You’re alright…”

 

Martin’s sobs slowly died away. Queasy guilt and embarrassment were taking their place.

 

“I’m sorry –“ he gasped again, knowing he should sit up – be OK – but not wanting to leave the contact, steady and sure around him.

 

That was how Arthur and Carolyn found them, when they came back, both with faces that were drawn and anxious, a little bit terrified. Scattered airport workers were looking on too, puzzled, some whispering. Martin was curled in Douglas’ arms, with the first officer stroking his hair, lost to the rest of the world.


	13. Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas has some serious feeling-wrestling to do.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Said in the same peculiar voice Martin had seemed to think would pass for normal all day.

 

Douglas just about repressed a groan as he followed Martin into the hotel room, tossing his bag onto the nearest bed. Martin strode ahead of him and ignored the second bed, staring out of the window, past the tiny balcony, into the distance. It looked as if Martin was going to blank him, like he had all the way there in the taxi. It had made for a very silent journey, even Arthur’s usual bonhomie totally crushed. They’d checked in and Martin had grabbed their key without ceremony and almost run up the stairs. Douglas had exchanged a fleeting suspicious look with Carolyn and then headed straight after him.

 

He knew Martin felt humiliated again. How could he make him see that it was alright, all of it?

 

“I’m going to lie down for a bit.” Martin finally turned round. “I’m tired.”

 

Douglas nodded. _At least he’d spoken_. Martin stalked over to the small single bed nearest the window, kicking his shoes off on the way, slinging his jacket on the chair. Not looking at Douglas. He hastily curled himself up under the covers, his back towards the first officer.

 

 _He wishes I weren’t here_. The thought was unexpectedly painful. _I’m not leaving him_. He was so tired himself – wanted nothing more to stretch out and sleep – but he didn’t trust Martin to be left alone, not after an episode that was so clearly devastating to his pride.

 

Douglas had known the instant that Martin had sprung away from him in the hangar that everything was wrong – the second Carolyn’s voice, more than usually loud with stress, had snapped “Martin!” – probably in surprise at finding the two of them huddled on the floor. But the effect had been disastrous – Martin had seemed to come crashing back to reality and had barely spoken again, except to insist four or five times that he was ‘fine’, in response to their worried questions.

 

 _I need to keep an eye on him_. But the need was conflicting with Martin’s preference to be left alone. He didn’t want to upset him more – could understand if the younger man needed space to think… Aha. The balcony.

 

Douglas walked to the French windows, softly sliding one open. The warm evening air flooded in towards him, and he deftly slipped out, closing the glass door behind him. There was a battered old chair out there that looked as if it might once have been comfy, and he subtly altered the angle of it so that Martin’s bed (and therefore Martin) would be captured in his peripheral vision.

 

He flopped tiredly into the seat. _There_. Now he was able to leave Martin alone in the room, yet still watch over him – just in case. The lump under the bedcovers was unmoving, but Douglas was sure Martin wasn’t sleeping, even though he could have used the rest. He was certain that Martin was lying there awake, telling himself off for his panic attack. Maybe even chastising himself for upsetting Douglas…

 

He’d noticed three days ago the shift in Martin’s attitude towards him and it had taken him a whole day to unravel why. At last, it had struck him – it was as if Martin had suddenly had an epiphany that by being upset, he was hurting Douglas too. Douglas shouldn’t have let his composed mask slip, after that video. Should never have allowed Martin to glimpse beneath the surface. Now Martin was hiding everything. Not knowing that Douglas deserved every bit of misery he was experiencing, after what he’d done. That he should suffer, as punishment.

 

 _Perhaps I should tell him_ … No. Douglas told himself that would hurt Martin more. Destroy him just when he’d seemed to start to trust Douglas – _except he shouldn’t trust me_. But he needed to trust someone…Thoughts whirled to and fro in his head. He’d been having the same argument with himself for three days.

 

The warm wind caressed him as it blew in from the Mediterranean, and he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, leant back, sighed. _What do I do_? He stared up at the sky. Couldn’t find an answer. He was so exhausted… too tired to do anything sensible about reaching a conclusion now. His eyes slid shut, breathing lengthening…

 

It seemed to him that he was back in the bedroom, watching Martin stand by the window. He knew his captain was upset by the tense line of his back… the hunched shoulders…

 

“I’m right here,” he said, feeling his voice echo out from him.

 

Martin turned, looked at him with warmth – softness – the tension partially melting out of him, as it seemed to whenever Douglas spoke these days.

 

“Douglas?”

 

He was crossing the room, following that voice. It seemed to take him just two steps to be beside his friend, and then he was _right next_ to Martin – could smell the spicy, clean scent of him, see every freckle on his nose.

 

“Yes?”

 

The green eyes were troubled once more, quick pants forcing their owner’s chest to rapidly rise and fall. “I’m scared.”

 

Douglas’ voice still had that odd, echoing quality. “You’re safe… you’re alright…” Panic fluttered within him. He needed Martin to be OK.

 

The eyes didn’t seem sufficiently reassured. Douglas reached out – pulled Martin close again – held him so tight to his chest that he could feel the captain’s heartbeat against his. Heard Martin’s breathing grow slower, heavier – felt the other man’s arms run up his back, enfolding, comforting.

 

“We’re alright, we’re alright…” Strange. How long had Martin been whispering that in his ear?

 

The hands stroking his back were moving, shifting down, still grasping him beautifully near. Martin had stopped trembling against him.

 

Douglas breathed, his hands round Martin echoing the same motion as the captain’s. Stroking. Caressing. Feeling every muscle of the slender body wrapped around his. And Martin’s breath was warm in his ear, and Douglas felt as if he was about to burst open with the sheer aching tenderness of it, the sweetness – because Martin was here, and he was fine, and he was his – and he turned his head just a fraction, the tiniest bit…

 

And there were Martin’s lips, meeting his, and he was flying, held tight and safe in his arms – _who’s comforting who_? – and it seemed Martin had more ideas, because he was pulling him softly towards the bed, still kissing him. A kiss that had smoothly transmuted from being gentle and caring to becoming inflamed, passionate. Fire was roaring through Douglas’ veins – burning heat consuming him – and he wanted to be closer to Martin, to be enveloped in him; so he tugged him down onto the bed, limbs entwining, knowing both of them were suddenly naked and not caring how.

 

Those beautiful green eyes were right before him, and there wasn’t hurt there, just love, acceptance, adoration – passion… And Martin’s hands were running all over him, stroking him exactly how he most wanted to be stroked, just then: fingers lightly tickling his sides, one hand gently running up and down his cock, which was abruptly so hard, throbbing, wanting to come so much – Martin’s lips were soft on his neck, his hair tickling Douglas’ chin. _Oh God_ – _I need you_ –

 

He could feel Martin’s skin, so soft, smooth, wanted to reciprocate. Reached a hand – found that Martin was hard too –

 

“You want me?” He didn’t dare believe it, even on the evidence firm in his fingers.

 

Martin’s eyes met his again as he nodded, laughed; carefree, happy. Douglas felt as if he was flying into a million blissful pieces, began to stroke him in return, saw his eyes screw shut with ecstasy… heard Martin moan, this time with pure delight and desire. And he was going to come – felt his balls go deliciously tight, his thighs tremble -

 

But why was Martin breathing so hard, in his face? The warm, fragrant air was not what he wanted – blowing back his hair…

 

_CRASH._

 

Douglas snapped awake. A strong gust of wind had blown over a chair in the courtyard below. He experienced a moment of extreme disorientation, his body flooding simultaneously with shame whilst still swamping him with pleasurable, dreamt sensations. He was hard, erection tenting his trousers.

 

 _NO_. At the sudden awareness of where he was, what his sleeping mind had just conjured up, guilt sliced through him like a machete, head to foot, cleaving him straight through his middle. He crossed his legs, angling his lap away from the window, glancing hurriedly through to make sure that Martin wasn’t looking out – hadn’t noticed –

 

 _Martin’s gone_.

 

At the realization, he leapt to his feet, his hardness wilting as rapidly as if he’d had a bucket of cold water thrown over him. _I’ve let him slip away_ – the instant stress of icy fear pounded through him.

 

He flung open the door, fled through the room. _Perhaps he’s with Carolyn – Arthur_ – He was fumbling with the door handle –

 

“Douglas?”

 

“ _Christ_.” Martin had emerged from the bathroom, behind him. He hadn’t even thought to look there. “I thought – I thought –“ He heaved in a shaky breath. “I thought you’d gone.”

 

“Just to the loo.” Martin looked utterly taken aback.

 

“Course. Of course.” He was trying to stop himself trembling.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes, fine.” Trying to sound breezy, unconcerned. _Martin’s speciality, lately_.

 

Martin still looked puzzled. “Maybe you should lie on the bed.”

 

“What?” His voice was petrified. Douglas’ guilty brain instantly leapt to the conclusion that Martin must have known exactly what he’d just been dreaming.

 

“Well, you fell asleep out there – you must be tired.” Martin tried to give him another one of the empty, faux-reassuring smiles he’d been flashing at every opportunity for the past three days. “Why don’t you have a snooze? I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“Right.” Douglas turned his back on him, slipped hastily under the sheets. Anything to forestall any further discussion. He heard Martin lie back down again, yawning. No wonder they were both so tired – they’d had so little sleep.

 

Except that there was no way that Douglas was going to allow himself to drop off now. No way on earth that he’d risk slipping back into that shameful, predatory, _impossible_ dream again. _You pervert_. All the harsh names he could come up with, he flung at himself, feeling guilt oozing from every pore. _You have no right. No right to think of him that way._

 

Martin’s breathing gradually lapsed into slumber, long drawn-out sighs indicating his unconsciousness. Douglas’ eyes were scrunched shut, but he’d never been further from sleep in his life.

 

* * *

 

 _Tap, tap, tap_.

 

The soft knock at the door caused Douglas to hurtle out of bed, dropping his phone which he’d been reading for the last hour, idly flicking through information. He raced to quietly answer before whoever it was outside could wake Martin. Gently, he tugged open the door, ready to hush whoever he found.

 

“Hi, Douglas!” Arthur whispered, seeing Douglas’ finger to his lips.

 

“Arthur?”

 

“Mum sent me to bring you both some dinner. Look!” He raised the tray he held, two covered plates sitting next to each other on it.

 

“Thanks,” Douglas held the door wider, stepping aside. “Martin’s sleeping – be quiet –“

 

Arthur nodded, and crept in as soundlessly as a somewhat flat-footed 6 feet of man could. He gently placed the tray on the desk in the corner, turning to look over at where Martin slept, his ginger hair a tousled contrast to the white of the pillow. Douglas’ eyes followed his, taking in the softness of the pale face in sleep. His stomach gave a painful, unbidden clench of longing.

 

“You OK?” Arthur whispered. He’d turned to look at Douglas without him realizing.

 

“YES,” hissed Douglas, panic flooding him again.

 

“You sure?” Arthur was nothing if not persistent. “Only you look like you’ve got a headache.”

 

“I’m FINE.”

 

Arthur eyed him. “That’s what Martin keeps saying.”

 

“I know – look, for goodness’ sake – “

 

Martin suddenly stirred, mumbled something, rolled over. Hastily, Douglas grabbed a surprised Arthur by the wrist and pulled him out on to the balcony, closing the glass door behind them, watching carefully to make sure Martin stayed asleep.

 

“What are we doing out here?” Arthur appeared baffled.

 

“You mustn’t wake Martin.”

 

“Oh.” Arthur sounded as if he understood. Spoke a little more loudly, now they were outside. “But – are you alright, Douglas?”

 

 _Why did Arthur suddenly have to be perceptive_ _?_ Douglas didn’t know how to answer him. Perhaps this was partly why Martin kept saying he was fine. “I’m… OK.”

 

“I don’t think you are.”

 

“Don’t you?” Sarcasm dripped from his tone, as off-putting a voice as he could manage.

 

“No.” Arthur regarded Douglas, steadily. “I’m not, and Mum’s not. And we haven’t got Martin living with us all the time. You have.”

 

“It’s nothing.” Douglas’ feelings of guilt rose up again.

 

“It’s not! It’s brilliant what you’re doing. It must be really difficult. I couldn’t do it.”

 

Douglas sighed. “You’re very good to him. With him. I’m… not.”

 

“Don’t be silly! Of course you are. Look how much he trusts you!”

 

Just what Douglas didn’t want to dwell on. The unjustified trust. He didn’t know what to say.

 

Arthur carried on. “You must be really tired. I thought that might be why you had a headache.”

 

“No. No headache.”

 

“Oh good. I’m glad about that.”

 

Douglas turned his back to the room, leaned his hands on the balcony rail. Hung his head. He could feel Arthur watching him, but he was just too tired to pretend.

 

“You can talk to me, if you want.” Arthur sounded oddly… grown up.

 

“Thanks. But no.”

 

“That’s OK. You don’t have to. I just wanted you to know that you could, if talking was what you wanted to do. You can talk to me about anything.”

 

 _Anything? About how I haven’t just_ seen _your Skip get raped, beaten, abused, but that I came all over myself because of it_? It was unthinkable. No one should ever know. Would ever know. He looked back into Arthur’s trusting, innocent eyes and tried to smile at him, to assuage his concern.

 

“Don’t do that.” Arthur frowned.

 

“Do what?”

 

“You’re doing the same smile Skip was doing in the taxi. The one that doesn’t reach your eyes. _You_ know. I saw you looking worried about it when he did that too.”

 

“Sorry.” Douglas’ shoulders sagged further. He sat back in the chair, Arthur sliding to the ground in front of him, crossing his legs.

 

“No need to apologise… it’s just that it’s bad enough with Martin doing it. I don’t want you to start, as well as him.”

 

“It is bad, isn’t it?” Douglas was surprised at himself. _Why am I talking to Arthur about this_? There was something about Arthur’s openness, frankness, lack of judgmental-ness, which seemed to invite confidences. Well – some confidences.

 

“I don’t understand. He wasn’t doing it when I saw him last week.”

 

Douglas sighed, rubbed his cheek. “It’s since a couple of days ago. He insisted on watching the video that – “ _not your dad, don’t say your dad_ – “that I was sent of… what happened.”

 

“The video made him feel like he needed to pretend to be OK for us? I don’t understand.”

 

“No.” Douglas felt the shame threatening to overwhelm him yet again. Could he explain? He tried. “I think… I think Martin saw how I felt. I – I had to stay in the room while he watched it, and hear it all over again, and after –“ He grappled to find the right words. “Afterwards, he caught sight of my face. And I’m worried – I looked…”

 

“Awful?” supplied Arthur, tentatively.

 

Douglas nodded, ashamed. “And I think now he feels guilty. _More_ guilty.”

 

“Oh, Douglas.”

 

Douglas waited for Arthur to heap censure on him, to shout, to betray sheer disappointment and disdain. He deserved it. He stared hard at the tiled floor of the balcony, awaiting the anger that was surely to come.

 

“Douglas – that’s not your fault, you know.”

 

 _What_? He jerked his head up in shock.

 

“You can’t help having feelings. And living with Martin – or rather, him living with you – you were bound to have to show them sometime.” Arthur reflected for a moment. “Especially if you had to watch that film again – hear poor Skip being hurt. _I_ couldn’t pretend to be OK after that.”

 

 _Trust Arthur everyone’s-brilliant_ _Shappey_ _to find excuses for me_. “That’s very kind of you.” But Douglas didn’t believe it. He stood up. “Better eat the dinner before it gets cold.”

 

“OK!” Arthur bounded up. “I’d better go-“

 

His head whipped round simultaneously with Douglas’. Martin was deep in a nightmare, his face contorted, terrified. Anguished moans were abruptly pouring from him, sweat beading his brow as he thrashed and writhed. Without a second thought, Douglas dashed into the room, needing to wake him, to make him understand that he was OK, in Cannes, not Riga…

 

“Martin – Martin –“

 

“What’s happening? Is it happening again?” Arthur sounded scared. The sight of the captain crumpled on the ground in the hangar had obviously really frightened him.

 

“Just a nightmare.” Douglas turned back to Martin, called his name again.

 

Martin emerged from the dream with a strangled gasp and wild eyes skittering over the room, Douglas, Arthur. He’d half bolted upright on waking, but now fell back on to the pillows, breathing hard.

 

Douglas strived for normality, as Martin seemed to want. “Arthur’s brought us dinner, look.”

 

“What?” Martin looked at where the two of them were pointing. Absorbed the sight of the two plates. “Err – thanks, Arthur.”

 

“No problem.” Arthur looked from one to the other of them. “Well – I’ll leave you to eat up. Mum’s expecting me back in our room.”

 

He turned to leave, then seemed to pause in indecision. He looked back. “I – I hope you feel better, Skip.”

 

Martin flushed. “Thanks,” he said, awkwardly.

 

Arthur ducked his head, left the room. Douglas stood up to get the tray. “Here you go.” He passed a plate to Martin, who eyed it warily.

 

“Um – did Arthur just bring this, or did he cook it?”

 

Douglas lifted a lid to inspect. “Looks like we’re safe. He just carried it up.”

 

“’K.” Martin did the same, took a tentative bite of the chicken underneath.

 

“Are you O–“ Douglas bit his tongue. He had to stop asking all the time. He changed the question. “Are you… happy with the food?” _Rubbish cover-up, Richardson_.

 

“Yep.” Martin took another mouthful, swallowed. “Err – you don’t have to stay in if you’d rather go out.”

 

A feeling of panic made Douglas tense his jaw. “I’m too tired to go out.” _I won’t leave you to have nightmares alone_.

 

“Oh. Well. If you’re sure.”

 

“Yes.” Douglas had an idea. “While you were sleeping, I did some Googling around on my phone. Looked up more about this EMDR stuff.”

 

“Oh yes?” Martin looked inquisitive, a bit nervous.

 

“Well, it seems pretty well-respected. Well-researched.”

 

“OK.”

 

“If that’s what the lady recommended… well, it’s up to you of course – but perhaps it’s worth a shot?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Were you hoping I’d tell you not to do it?” Somewhat sheepishly, Martin nodded. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

 

“No, it’s fine.” Martin sighed. “I know I should go, it’s just –“

 

“What?” Martin didn’t answer. Douglas felt desperate. “You can tell me anything, Martin. I promise it won’t… upset me.” He rushed on. “And you don’t need to feel bad if it does. That doesn’t matter.”

 

Martin gave a sad little snort of disbelief.

 

“I’m not lying.” _Well, not about this_.

 

Martin looked up, cautiously. “I can’t ask you.”

 

“You can. I won’t laugh. Or judge.”

 

“It’s not that… it’s just that… you’ve done so much already. Far more than I have a right to expect.”

 

 _I’d do anything. Anything to try and make this up to you_. “That doesn’t matter. Ask away.”

 

“If… I go through with it… book a session in… would you mind coming to the first one?” Martin took in the surprised expression on Douglas’ face. He spoke in a rush. “Of course it’s fine if you don’t want to only she said it might help if I brought someone and you’re the only one who really knows –“

 

“Of course I’ll come.” Douglas stopped the flood of words in their tracks.

 

“Really?” Martin goggled at him.

 

“Of course.”

 

“But… but… but…” Martin appeared totally flabbergasted, as if he’d been certain Douglas would refuse. “But… you’ve done so much already.”

 

“It’s nothing.” Guilt, fear thundered through Douglas’ brain.

 

“No, Douglas, it’s not. You’ve done so much. More than I have any right to expect. You are amazing.” Martin blushed. “Thank you so, so much. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

 

Douglas stood up, abruptly, almost sending his half-empty plate to the floor. Martin jumped at the suddenness of his movement. “Sorry,” Douglas apologized, not meaning to scare him – just needing to get away – “I think…. I will just go for a walk after all. Just get some air.”

 

“Of course.” Martin sounded as he probably felt – completely bewildered by such a bizarre reaction to what were, after all, compliments.

 

Douglas turned, blindly left the room. Martin’s gratitude was too much to bear. _If he knew the truth_ – his footsteps led him downstairs. He wasn’t thinking where he was going.

 

_I wish this wasn’t happening. I wish I’d never seen it. I wish Gordon was dead. I wish Martin hadn’t been so trusting as to drink with three strange men. I wish those men were dead – no, not dead, being tortured, made to scream –_

 

He was in the bar. Ah, this was comforting. Familiar.

 

 _I don’t deserve his thanks. If he knew… what I’d done… what I’d dreamt –_ his insides convulsed at the thought. _He’d hate me. Never want to see me again_. He was stunned at the desolation of the thought. _I… like Martin._

 

God. He probed at the feeling, as if testing a wobbly tooth with his tongue. _No. I’m falling for -_ Stupid. Stupid. Disgusting. _You saw him get raped – and now you think you_ love _him? Sick. Sick._

 

“ _Bonsoir, Monsieur._ What can I get you, sir?” He’d taken a stool at the bar, out of habit. Long-forgotten habit, but still.

 

“Scotch.”

 

“On the rocks?”

 

“Neat. Make it a double.”

 

“ _Tout de suite_.”

 

The drink was in front of him. He stared at it. Picked it up. The glass felt cool in his sweating hand.

 

Martin’s face flashed before him, the panicking, crumpled face that he’d leaned in to in the hangar, trying to soothe, to mend.

 

 _He let you touch him_ , a tiny, hopeful voice within him piped up.

 

 _And when he finds out what you did, he’ll want to kill you. Never see you again. He’ll despise you._ Douglas raised the tumbler to his lips, his hand trembling lightly.

 

 _You are DESPICABLE_. He knew this voice. It was the one that had always spoken to him when he had a glass in his hand. He could smell the alcohol vapours coming off the Scotch. They burned his nose.

 

 _PERVERT_.

 

Something in him snapped. He tilted his wrist –

 

“ _Douglas_.” He arrested his movement. The liquid paused, level, not quite touching his lips. _Martin’s voice_? He replaced the drink on the bar, spun round, fully expecting to see the captain, but he was alone. He mentally replayed the word.

 

“ _Douglas_.” It was the way Martin sounded when he woke up from a nightmare. That word – filled with need, yet comforted at the same time. Tugging at him from his memory.

 

He looked at the scotch as if it were an alien. It took everything he had, but he stood up. Stepped back. Left a ten Euro note. Walked away. _He needs you_.

 

……………………

 

He raised his hand. Knocked on the door, heard footsteps approaching. Arthur opened it, looking stunned to see him. Douglas was sure his face was a mess, couldn’t summon the appropriate languid, laid-back expression required.

 

“Hi, Arthur.”

 

“Hi!”

 

“Who is it?” Carolyn called from inside the room.

 

“It’s Douglas.”

 

He spoke quickly. “Arthur – could you go and sit with Martin for a while, in case he has another bad dream? It would be a big help.”

 

“Of course – I love helping!” Arthur slipped out past him, taking the proffered room key, and trotted off down the corridor. He heard Carolyn’s footsteps approaching.

 

She pulled the door open more widely, took in his expression. “What is it?”

 

He sighed. He didn’t know how – or where – to begin. What to say. He settled for something simple. “Carolyn. Can I come in?”

 

“Of course.” She stepped aside, scrutinizing him as he sloped into the room, shame-facedly. “What is it?” Worry was evident in her tone. “What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing.” Douglas couldn’t meet her eye. “It’s just… I think that… for a couple of hours – if that’s alright – I think I need someone to sit with _me_.”

 

She looked at him, shrewdly. He hung his head. He felt utterly, utterly stupid and ridiculous.

 

“Sit down.” Her voice was… still Carolyn. But there was a rare note of kindness in it – understanding. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“No.” He absolutely, positively did NOT.

 

“Fine.” She observed him over her spectacles. “In that case, you can sit there. I will keep reading my book.” She picked it up, shot him a glance that was almost… compassionate. “And you can stay as long as you need.”

 

“Thanks.” Douglas rested his head back against the wall, let his eyes close.

 

“Hmph.” Carolyn gave one of her usual, priggish sniffs. But Douglas knew she didn’t mean it.

 

They sat, silently, for at least an hour. In her calm presence, Douglas felt his thoughts slow a bit, stop racing… He sighed. _I’m in deep trouble. But I can’t do anything about it. Not now…_

 

* * *

 

Eventually, he stood up. _She must think I’m mad_. But he did feel steadier again. “Better get back.”

 

“OK.” She looked up as he went to leave. “Douglas?”

 

“Yes?”

 

She cleared her throat, uncomfortably. “Anytime, you hear me?”

 

He didn’t look at her, but nodded, a sudden lump in his throat. _Time to go back to Martin_. He left, without a word.


	14. First Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is helped - again - by Arthur.

Martin looked up at the sound of the keycard in the door. He felt his heart beat faster, his pulse stuttering with anxiety tempered with an odd swoop of his stomach – _anticipation? Pleasurable anticipation_? Surely not.

 

“Douglas?” The door swung open, knocking into the wall. A flake of plaster flew down, smashing to dusty smithereens on the tiled floor.

 

“Hi Skip!”

 

“Oh. Hello, Arthur.” Martin peered past the tall steward, trying to conceal his disappointment. Worry fluttered in his chest again. “Is Douglas with you?”

 

“Nope,” Arthur said, stepping inside and closing the door more carefully behind him. “He’s with Mum. He gave me his key to come and keep you company for a bit.”

 

“Huh.” Martin was surprised. “You don’t have to, you know.”

 

Arthur took a seat on Douglas’ bed. “It’s fine! I’m helping.” Pride shone clearly through his voice.

 

“Hang on.” Martin suddenly realized what Arthur had said. “Did you really say Douglas was with your Mum?”

 

“Yep.” Arthur nodded, confidently.

 

“Carolyn wanted to talk to him?”

 

“No, he just showed up.” Arthur reflected for a second. “He looked a bit… odd, actually. Like he was… all achy, or something. Like you when you twisted your ankle and we drove to Devon. I should’ve asked if he was OK, but he sent me here.”

 

“Oh. Oh.” Thoughts were whirling round Martin’s brain. Douglas had left so suddenly, and for no apparent reason. He glanced up, which only reminded him further of his FO’s swift exit – the still half-full dinner plate was dumped on the desk. _What can I possibly have said_? Douglas normally gloried in any signs of gratitude from anyone, and Martin had been positively effusive in his thanks. How could Douglas have conceivably taken it badly?

 

He looked over at Arthur. “He didn’t say anything… about me, did he?” Tried to pose the question casually, hoping Arthur wouldn’t notice anything off in the intensity of his tone. _Douglas matters_. This was one of the several times recently he’d abruptly had this brought home to him. _I need him to be alright_.

 

Arthur shook his head. “He just said I should come and check in on you, you know – in case you have another bad dream.”

 

Martin cringed inside. He was so ashamed of his nightmares. No amount of Anna reassuring him that it was his mind’s attempt to process the trauma would make him suspect that it was anything but weakness, a betrayal of his efforts to be strong, be manly, to cope. He quickly switched the subject back to the thing that was bothering him most, desperate to know the answer – even if that meant asking Arthur outright.

 

“Do you think he’s OK?” Apprehension needled perniciously at him.

 

“No,” Arthur answered, bluntly – though not cruelly. “I mean – none of us are, are we? Especially not you.”

 

Martin didn’t know how to reply. Arthur carried on. “I think he’s very worried today – that you’re trying not to hurt him when he actually would rather know what’s really going on.”

 

Martin was totally taken aback. “You mean – he noticed?”

 

Arthur nodded, as if it was obvious. “Of course! We’ve all noticed.”

 

“Even you?” Martin hadn’t meant the question to sound insulting, but he was so surprised that even _Arthur_ had managed to penetrate his supposedly clever façade that he couldn’t quite conceal his shock. Luckily, the younger man seemed to take the question in the spirit in which it was intended.

 

“Yes!” Arthur was emphatic. “I know you’re trying to help us, and that’s really great of you. You’re very strong, you know.” Martin shook his head, opened his mouth to demur, but before he could, Arthur ploughed on. “But you don’t need to, Skip. We all really want to help you. Even Mum. _Especially_ Mum. It’s just – we already find it difficult to know what to do – or say – and if we’re trying to figure that out whilst you’re trying to act all normal again, that makes it even harder.”

 

Martin was stunned. “But… but… I don’t want you to worry. That’s not fair.”

 

“But, you see, what happened to you wasn’t fair. And the thing is, we’re already worried. I’m sorry – because I know you really hate things being different – but nothing you pretend will change that. It only makes us fret that you’re not coping more.”

 

“I _am_ coping. I’m f-“

 

“Don’t say you’re fine.” Arthur looked serious, for once. “It gives me a funny ache, here, when you say that.” He put a hand to his heart, still looking steadily at Martin. “It never looks fine in your eyes.”

 

“My eyes?” Martin’s stomach felt fuzzy, uncertain.

 

“Yes. You keep smiling – and Douglas tries to too – but we can see you’re just pretending. And I just wanted you to know – you don’t have to do that. You’re shutting us out.”

 

“Is that why – do you think that’s why Douglas stormed off?”

 

“I don’t know. But I think…” Arthur frowned. Clearly mental gymnastics of some complexity were taking place in his brain. “I think that by trying not to upset him, you’re only upsetting him more. He really, really wants to help you. We all do. Please be honest with us.”

 

“I’m trying to protect you.” Martin felt, suddenly, like a small boy – desolate.

 

“You don’t have to. We can take care of ourselves.”

 

“And I can’t, you mean?” Martin’s flash of anger injected more venom into his voice than he’d intended, but Arthur didn’t snap back at him.

 

“That’s not what I meant. Of course you can take care of you. I mean - you’re the _captain_! You’re brilliant! It’s just…” Arthur was thinking hard again. “I think that anyone would struggle to know how to manage something like this. And no one should have to do it without help from his friends. So, please… let us help.”

 

“You _are_ helping, Arthur.” Martin meant it. “I simply… don’t know how to inflict this on all of you and stay sane. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

 

“That’s very noble of you… But, the trouble is, we’re all already hurt.” Martin felt a surge of sadness deep within at such an idea – especially from perennially cheery Arthur. “Still, do you know what helps me feel better?”

 

Martin shook his head.

 

“It’s feeling like I’m helping you. That makes me happier again. And I’m sure Douglas is exactly the same.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes! You know how highly he thinks of you!”

 

“Do I?” Martin’s doubts were very close to the surface.

 

Arthur eyed him, surprised. “You _should_ know! He thinks you’re amazing.”

 

“You’re wrong, Arthur.”

 

“I’m not! You never saw how he acted with the captain who was with us before you joined. He hated him. Douglas wouldn’t bother to hide it if he didn’t like you.”

 

Martin mulled this over. A little spark of unexpected happiness was threatening to ignite in his heart.

 

“And – you should see how he looks at you when he thinks you can’t see,” Arthur carried on. “He’s watching over you, you know. He wants you to be OK _so much_.”

 

Martin felt the happiness kindle into a flame, warming him, despite the queasy worry still knotting his insides. “I… think very highly of him, too.”

 

“I know!” Arthur smiled. “I see how you look at him, as well. When you think he’s not looking. It’s the same face you get when GERTI takes off – really crinkly, happy eyes – or at least it was, a month ago.”

 

Martin blushed. _I can’t believe you’ve noticed_. “God – does Douglas know?” _He’d tease the life out of me_.

 

“No, of course not.” Arthur frowned, disappointedly. “It’s so annoying. I catch you both – each looking when you think the other one won’t. I nearly said something the other day –“

 

“Arthur Shappey, _don’t you dare_!”

 

“I wouldn’t. But it’s so frustrating. I just want to yell ‘look up! Catch each other’s eyes!’ because then you’d both know. But you never do. So tonight I thought I’d better tell you.” Arthur smiled again.

 

“Oh God – have you told Douglas?”

 

“No.”

 

Martin was so relieved. “Please, please don’t. I just – I’m sure – Douglas would never feel the same way. The same level of – regard – for me. Please.”

 

“You’re wrong…” Arthur looked rebellious.

 

“Please. Just don’t,” Martin implored him, as fiercely as he knew how.

 

Arthur looked reluctant. “Well… alright. But you are wrong, you know. Douglas thinks you’re brilliant.”

 

“Hmm.” Martin picked at a loose thread in the bedspread. _Change the subject_. “Do you want to see what’s on TV?”

 

“OK!” Arthur grabbed the remote and flicked on the ancient, boxy set that was suspended rather perilously from the wall by the bathroom. Sudden, blaring noise from a French game-show filled the room. He cycled through the channels. “News… news… ooh, cartoon?” He looked pleadingly at Martin.

 

“No, Arthur. I’m 36, not 13.”

 

Arthur sighed, dramatically. “Fine.” He continued channel-hopping. “Panel game… weather… drama?” A police procedural, dubbed from American English – CSI, maybe? Martin couldn’t remember the title, but vaguely recognized the actors. He didn’t own a television (too expensive) and so rarely kept up with what was on in the schedules. _Better than a cartoon_.

 

“Fine.” He and Arthur watched as two men examined a crime scene. They seemed to be picking through a shallow grave, using soft brushes to dust dirt away from a barely covered skeleton. Martin felt his brain begin to drift, not paying attention to the French he didn’t understand.

 

_Douglas… likes me? That can’t be true. He’s so much better than me._

_But…_ a small voice nagged within him. _Look how much he’s doing for you. You wouldn’t do all that for someone you didn’t like_.

 

 _No,_ clanged the other voice, totally disagreeing. _He probably just pities you. Pathetic Martin. So much of a pussy he gets jumped and taken up the arse by three other men. Such a girl. You’d never be worth his time._ Martin shivered, fearing that this was the truth, feeling the all-too-familiar shame course through him.

 

 _Douglas wouldn’t be like that_ , the other side of him argued back. _He does respect you. He does. He said he didn’t think what happened was funny. That it was… that it was destroying him, even_. _Could Arthur be… could Arthur be right?_

 

His mind whirled, ebbing and flowing. Thinking of nothing but Douglas.

 

* * *

 

“Skip?” Arthur’s inquisitive tones broke into his reverie.

 

“Yes?” Martin’s head snapped up, irrationally worried that Arthur had somehow read his thoughts about Douglas’ true feelings about him and was preparing to either confirm or deny them.

 

Arthur’s eyes were fixed on the TV screen. The scene had changed after a commercial break, and was now showing one of the regular actors – the CSIs, if that’s what they were – standing in a courtroom, apparently giving evidence. Arthur spoke up a little hesitantly. “I know you might not want to talk about this –“ Martin’s insides shriveled, apprehensively – “but – why won’t you talk to the police about what happened to you?”

 

Martin froze. He didn’t know what to say. “Um…” he hesitated, eloquently.

 

Arthur looked worried. “It’s just – I’m so angry about what they did to you. It was so, so wrong. I can’t stand to think that they could get away with it.”

 

“That’s… kind of you.” _Stupid answer_.

 

“It’s not kind. It’s the truth.” Arthur looked over at him, taking in his frozen expression. “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

 

“No, you’re not.” Martin sighed. Frankly, it was a question that had been weighing on his mind since that morning, when Anna had raised a similar inquiry. She hadn’t pushed, but it had made him consider it again for the first time since he’d lost it with Carolyn over a week ago.

 

Arthur was still looking questioning. He tried to cobble together an answer that was truthful, without raising false hope. “Well… to be honest… I have been thinking about it.”

 

“Oh good!” Arthur looked much happier.

 

“Wait – don’t get excited.” Martin nearly smiled in spite of himself as he saw Arthur physically steady himself, as if to stop from bouncing. “It’s a really, really big thing, Arthur. I – I’m very worried about what might happen if I report it…”

 

“Why?” Arthur didn’t sound as if he thought this was silly. He was actually asking.

 

Martin took a deep breath. “Well, it’s… I’d have to go through it all. Tell them everything. And I don’t remember very much, even after…” He hesitated. Didn’t want to tell Arthur he’d watched the video. “… even after a month.”

 

“But Herc has the footage. Won’t that be all they need to see?”

 

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that. They’d have to find them… and prove who took part. And then I’d have to relive it all in court. Convince a jury. Face… _them_.” At the thought, his stomach clutched in panic.

 

Arthur took this in, nodded. “I know it would be really hard. But we’d all be there for you, you know. You wouldn’t have to do it on your own.”

 

“What?” Martin was surprised.

 

“Well, you don’t think we’d make you go through something like that by yourself, do you, Skip? We’ll all look after you. We’re not going to go away.”

 

 _Funny_. “Huh. Douglas said the same.”

 

“Did he?” Arthur sounded delighted that he’d managed to echo the first officer.

 

“Yeah,” Martin felt the information sink in, settle warmly in his chest. _Maybe… they really mean it_.

 

Arthur carried on. “It’s up to you – I know it has to be your decision. But please – please will you think some more about it? Everyone will be on your side. And then… then they won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”

 

 _Anyone else_? It was strange, but Martin hadn’t really allowed such a thought to cross his mind. He’d been totally focused on just making it through each day – each hour, even – himself, on blocking out any thought of those men and what they’d done, that he’d never let himself consider the possibility of _other_ victims. Past… future…? At the thought, cold dread shot through him.

 

“Are you OK?” Arthur sounded concerned. Martin shook himself.

 

“Yes,” he managed, a little shakily.

 

“We don’t have to talk about it. I can see I’m upsetting you. I’m sorry.” Arthur sounded genuinely contrite.

 

“Don’t worry.”

 

“I’ll switch this off.” Arthur flicked the TV into standby mode. “Bother. I didn’t think to bring Trivial Pursuit out of the games cupboard on GERTI.” He looked cross with himself. “You’d definitely have beaten me at that, and then you’d have been happy. You’d have got me back for Kerplunk.”

 

Martin opened his mouth to answer, but at that point a knock sounded at the door – a soft _tap-tap_ , almost apologetic in its hesitancy. Arthur leapt up to answer it, tugging the door open.

 

“Hi, Douglas!”

 

“Arthur.” Douglas hovered outside the door, looking oddly… guilty. He glanced over Arthur’s head, seeing that Martin was sitting up on his bed, clearly awake. “Hello, Martin.”

 

“Hi.” Martin was confused again. _Why does Douglas look all... shamefaced... so often, now_?

 

“I’ll head back to Mum’s room.” Arthur passed the key to Douglas as he entered. “I expect you chaps will want to get some sleep.”

 

“OK.” Martin nodded. “Arthur – thanks for sitting with me. It did help.”

 

The steward’s face spread into one of his very best enormous smiles. “No problem, Skip – anytime! And next time, I’ll make sure to bring Trivial Pursuit.”

 

“Great.” Martin smiled back. “Night.”

 

“Goodnight,” Douglas turned to close the door, both of them catching Arthur’s cheery “N-Night!” as he wandered off down the corridor. Douglas stepped back to his bed, sitting on it to undo his shoes.

 

“Are you… OK?” Martin ventured, tentatively.

 

“Yeah, fine.” Douglas shrugged, awkwardly. “Sorry for dashing off like that.” He offered no explanation as to why he’d done so, and Martin didn’t feel as if he could pry.

 

“Was Carolyn alright?”

 

“What?” Douglas looked surprised. “Oh, err, yes. All good.” He began to undress, pulling his pyjamas from his bag, turning his back to Martin.

 

Involuntarily, Martin scanned the strong, tanned back – shoulder-blades flexing as Douglas rooted through his suitcase. Douglas’ hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, looking oddly delicate and vulnerable above the broad shoulders. A peculiar flicker inside made Martin’s heart skip a beat.

 

“Douglas –“

 

“Yes?” The older man turned to look at him, pulling an old t-shirt over his head, concealing the lightly hairy chest, the tapering trail of which momentarily led Martin’s eyes down, towards – _ridiculous_. He stopped himself, made himself focus.

 

“I – I’m sorry if I’ve made you worry more.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortably. “Um – the last few days, I mean.” No response from Douglas. “I… I thought I was helping you.”

 

Suddenly, rapidly, Douglas shook his head.

 

Martin’s heart fell. “No – Arthur said it didn’t help.”

 

“Arthur’s right,” Douglas said quietly, with a hint of relief.

 

“Oh.” Martin felt sad, ashamed. Tried to make light of it. “Ha. Who’d have thought it? Arthur, being right.”

 

Douglas smiled, but a beat late, as if he wasn’t really there. “Quite. The world hasn’t ended, has it?” He gave a mock glance to check out of the window.

 

“Not yet.” Martin suddenly appreciated that for the first time in a month, it almost didn’t feel as though it had. _Progress_? He didn’t like to think too hard – just in case he disproved this fragile twinge of optimism.

 

Douglas was yanking on his pyjama trousers. “We need to head off at 10am.”

 

“OK. I’ll set my alarm.” Martin rolled over to do so while his co-pilot quickly completed ablutions in the bathroom. He had got ready for bed just after finishing his dinner, and waited for Douglas to climb under the covers before flicking out the light.

 

“Martin?” Douglas’ voice sounded oddly vulnerable in the dark.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m – I’m glad you came today.”

 

“You are?”

 

“Yes. I mean, don’t ever tell anyone I said this – but – I’ve missed you in the flight deck.”

 

Despite himself, Martin felt a wave of warmth deep in his core. “You’re just saying that so you don’t have to fly with Herc the berk,” he teased, happiness making him flippant.

 

“Well, there is that.” Douglas sounded a little less tentative. “But, really. It’s good to have you back. Even if it’s just occasionally, for now.”

 

“We’ll see.” Martin wasn’t sure what the next step would be. Still – at least now he could imagine there _being_ a next step. “Night, Douglas.”

 

“Goodnight, Martin.”


	15. Co-pilot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has his first session of EMDR, with Douglas along to support him - but who's supporting Douglas?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should say straight off I'm by no means an authority on EMDR or its practice, so please don't take what's written here as a necessarily accurate reflection of a session. Written solely from my own experience and so not medically vetted. Hope it works as a description nonetheless :)

“Ready?” Douglas looked over at Martin, who was once again sitting tensely in his passenger seat.

 

Martin nodded. “Ready.” It was two weeks since Cannes, and the time of his first EMDR appointment had rolled around – far quicker than Douglas had thought it would.

 

The two of them got out of the car and headed towards the psychotherapy centre, this time with Martin leading the way. He opened the door and booked himself in with the receptionist, to Douglas’ surprise – last time Martin had practically hidden behind him as if he didn’t want the girl at the desk to even see him.

 

They were waved through to the same waiting room as before, taking seats adjacent to one another. Martin took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, a tad shakily. He knitted his hands in his lap and hunched forward, nerves radiating through his posture.

 

Despite his own nervousness and (well-concealed) reluctance to be there, Douglas leaned forward, tried to reassure him. “It’ll be OK. It will.” Martin glanced at him – Douglas could see the doubt in his eyes. “You know Anna, now. It won’t be like the first time, meeting a stranger.”

 

Martin still seemed hesitant. “Yes… but… I know what she’s about to ask me to do.”

 

Douglas knew as well. He felt his own chest clutch in sympathy and dread. “You can do it, Martin. And it’ll be worth it if it helps.”

 

“I know.” Martin let out a shaky sigh.

 

Without thinking, Douglas reached out, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. At first, Martin shivered, and Douglas nearly withdrew his hand, as he might if burned; but the shiver was brief, and Martin looked up at him, giving a weak smile. Douglas felt the warmth of Martin bleeding through his shirt, hot against his broad palm, but that wasn’t why he suddenly felt a surge of heat inside. He felt oddly dizzy, just for a second. _No._ He had to stop himself, before he fell further…

 

Fortunately for Douglas, just at that moment, Anna appeared to summon Martin for his appointment.

 

“Is it alright if Douglas – my friend – comes in as well?”

 

“Of course.” She smiled at them both, beckoning them into her small room. There was a chair in front of the window, which she took, and a two-person settee just across from it. Martin flumped heavily down on to the sofa, Douglas sitting down more gingerly. Nerves were twisting hard in his gut. _What am I doing here? What am I about to be privy to?_

 

Anna seemed to sense their nervousness and went out of her way to put them at ease, explaining again the purpose of EMDR – that Martin’s brain had likely got stuck on its journey to process the traumatic events of 6 weeks before, and by asking him to bring the attack to mind whilst getting him to move his eyes differently she might be able to help his subconscious to better integrate the experience – 'much as human brains do naturally in REM sleep.'

 

“We hope it’ll help to stop the momentary flashbacks you’ve been having, and make the whole thing seem less raw and disturbing – less immediate and threatening.”

 

Martin let out another quavering breath, and nodded. He appeared to be holding himself together – though only just. His arms were wrapped defensively around his middle, fingers tightly clenched, and he was staring very hard at the carpet. Anna didn’t seem surprised or overly concerned by this, and in spite of himself, Douglas was impressed by her relaxed, compassionate demeanour.

 

“OK, Martin. We’ll go slowly, and if at any point you want to stop, just hold up your hand. It’s completely fine.”

 

Another sharp jerk of Martin’s chin indicated his agreement. Anna made a quick note on her pad.

 

“Right then. First of all, can you tell me what emotions tend to be triggered when you think about what happened?”

 

Martin considered for a moment, then spoke, his voice flat, dull. “Guilt. Humiliation. Fear. Disgust.” He thought again before finishing his list, his voice beginning to shake a little. “Sadness… grief, I suppose. And shame. Lots of shame.”

 

“OK.” Anna had made a record of what Martin had said on her papers as she went along. “Now, I’d like you to tell me a statement that sums up what you most strongly believe about the rape.”

 

Douglas flinched internally at the word, which sounded so horribly… matter-of-fact. Martin didn’t seem to register it too much, though he still wasn’t looking up – instead considering her request as he examined the floor between his feet.

 

Eventually he cleared his throat. “I feel as if… it was my fault.”

 

Douglas had to work very hard to stop himself from interrupting, from loudly assuring Martin it wasn’t true, it wasn’t. Anna caught his eye warningly just in time, giving him a reassuring look. She wrote down what Martin had said.

 

“Alright, Martin. If we take a scale of 0-10, where zero is not at all and ten is completely, how strongly would you say that you believe your statement that ‘it was my fault’?”

 

Martin didn’t really have to think about it, it appeared. “I’d say – around eight.”

 

“OK. And now I’d like you to tell me an opposite of that statement.”

 

“It… wasn’t my fault?”

 

“Good. How strongly would you say you can believe that, again on that 0-10 scale?”

 

“Two. Ish.” Martin’s voice was very quiet, and Douglas longed to take the suffering away. Wished it were him in the captain’s place instead. _Not Martin. Please, not Martin_ …

 

He dragged his attention back to Anna, forcing himself to concentrate on what she was saying now.

 

“Lastly, I’d like you to describe to me the situation that epitomizes the event for you. What can you see, smell, taste, hear or touch in the setting that you were in? What can you call to mind?”

 

Douglas felt Martin go rigid beside him – he hadn’t thought it was possible for Martin to be any tenser, but clearly he’d been wrong. A wave of foreboding filled him as Martin gritted out his answer.

 

“Blackness. Not being able to see. Really stabbing pain where they…” He trailed off, gulped compulsively. “You know.”

 

Anna prompted him gently. “How about taste? Or smell?”

 

Martin swallowed hard. “I could taste blood. From the cut in my mouth when they hit me. And the material on my face smelled… musty. A bit oily, maybe.” He had begun to tremble, just slightly. Douglas could feel the vibrations through the couch.

 

“OK. You’re doing well.” Anna shifted her chair so that she was much closer, sitting with her knees almost touching Martin’s, but slightly to the side of him. “I’m just getting into the right position so I can track your eye movements as we work through the session.”

 

Martin nodded, mutely. He was still shivering. Anna gave him an encouraging smile as she went on.

 

“Remember, you’re in control, here. If you want to stop at any point, all you have to do is hold up your hand, and we’ll take a break. Do you understand?”

 

“Of course I do,” Martin snapped, defensively. His shoulders slumped. “Sorry.”

 

“No problem.” Anna seemed unaffected by the flash of temper. “Now, as we go through, other memories and images may come to mind. They might seem irrelevant to you, but I’d like you to tell me what you’re thinking each time – it will all be related in some way, even if you can’t immediately pinpoint why.”

 

“Sure.” Martin’s fingers were fumbling in his lap, knotting and twisting in complicated, futile patterns that held Douglas oddly captivated. He was trying desperately to stay calm, to remain the steady, supportive presence that the captain clearly needed, all the while his own insides churning.

 

“Let’s begin.” Anna held up two fingers, about a metre from Martin’s face. “I want you to follow my fingers with your eyes. I’ll go slowly at first, then gradually a bit faster as you get used to it.” Martin nodded his understanding. “I want you to focus on that statement you made – ‘it’s my fault’. And the sensations you described, of touch, smell, taste and so on. OK?”

 

“Yes.” Martin’s voice was very small, barely more than a whisper. His hands were frozen now, clutched together in his lap.

 

“Off we go.” Anna began to move her hand horizontally, back and forth, back and forth. Douglas watched her fingers, as if hypnotized. She was carefully studying Martin’s eyes, watching his response. Martin was motionless apart from his pupils, tracking her hand. Douglas felt ridiculously tense, almost wary. He couldn’t imagine what must be going through Martin’s head.

 

After what was probably about 20 seconds (though it felt much longer to Douglas), Anna stopped, lowered her hand. “How was that?”

 

“Difficult.” Martin let out a shaky breath.

 

“I can imagine.” She gave him a sympathetic glance.

 

Martin sounded as if he was doing his best to appear calm. “It’s like everything inside me is screaming at me not to think about it, but I know I have to make myself – it’s like I’m at war with my own head. My own brain. Does that make sense?”

 

She nodded, understandingly “Try your best to stay with it. Shall we try again?”

 

“OK.”

 

The process was repeated. This time, though, Douglas was able to focus more on Martin, next to him. Surreptitiously, he titled his head to bring the captain’s face into his peripheral vision. Martin’s expression was tense, his jaw clenched. He looked much as Douglas remembered him just after the bird strike in St Petersburg – as if he was about to shatter into a million pieces, but was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

 

Anna lowered her hand again, this time after a little longer – maybe half a minute. “Is anything coming to mind?”

 

“Bits and pieces.” Martin frowned, distressed. “I remember… them laughing. I didn’t understand what they said, most of the time. I think… before… I was drinking with them. They wanted my help – but why? I can’t remember.” His forehead was knotted in frustration.

 

“Fine. You’re doing really well, Martin. We’ll try again. Keep focusing on that statement ‘It’s my fault’.”

 

Once more the lateral movements, the captain’s eyes switching back and forth as she moved her hand. Suddenly, he drew in a strangled gasp, nearly doubling over. Douglas felt as if he’d leapt out of his skin in shock. The atmosphere in the room had been so silent and charged, the sudden noise sounded as if it had been magnified a hundred times. Martin’s hand had shot up, stopping Anna immediately. She leaned forward.

 

“OK, Martin, OK,” she soothed, taking in his panic. Martin was folded in two, his head almost resting on his knees. “Come back – remember where you are.”

 

Her gentling voice had the desired effect. Martin’s face seemed to clear a little, and he slowly sat up straighter. Douglas suddenly realized he’d flung his hand to Martin’s shoulder again and was clutching it tightly. _When did I do that_?

 

“Can you tell me about what just happened?” Anna’s voice was kind.

 

Martin inhaled a quavering breath, let out a _whoosh_ of exhaled air. “I… It was suddenly really vivid.”

 

Anna nodded. “That’s not unexpected. What was it in particular?”

 

Martin spoke so quietly Douglas had to strain to hear. “Having… having my…” He had flushed, embarrassment staining his cheeks beetroot red. Eventually he seemed to decide to get it all out in a rush. “Having my legs forced open. The man… slamming into me.” He ducked his head, hid his face in his hands, momentarily.

 

Douglas felt sick, but was relieved when Anna didn’t react with shock or horror. He knew that that was what Martin most dreaded – why he wouldn’t speak about it. She simply spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.

 

“Alright. Well done for stopping me.”

 

“Well done?” Martin sounded incredulous.

 

“Absolutely. You are in charge here, Martin. You did the right thing – looked after your needs in the moment.” The captain looked a little disbelieving.

 

“You did, Martin. You were right.” Douglas couldn’t stop himself speaking out, wanted him to have faith in what she said. Martin glanced over at him, taking in the intensity in his eyes, the perfect seriousness with which he’d spoken. His face relaxed a little, and he nodded.

 

“Do you need another minute, or shall we keep going?”

 

“Keep going.” Martin set his jaw, a look of pure determination that was so familiar to Douglas from a thousand flight deck disagreements that for a moment he was knocked backwards by the sheer ordinariness of it. Before he could recover himself, Anna had begun again.

 

“Just follow my fingers.”

 

* * *

Forty minutes later, Douglas felt strongly as if he’d been squeezed through a mangle. He had the impression of being grey, thin, stretched with the effort of holding his turbulent emotions inside. Martin looked as exhausted as he was. Anna had been compassionate, kind, but insistent – she’d kept up the regular eye movements, had listened as Martin stumblingly related what the concentrated efforts were bringing up, hideous images surfacing in his mind.

 

“Hand on my throat – not being able to breathe… thinking I was going to die…”

 

“Wanting to scream, not remembering how. Pain in my wrist. Couldn’t move my arms – couldn’t get away…”

 

“My big brother, picking me up when I don’t want him to. He never listens – I’m never in control…”

 

“Boys at school making me swallow a ladybird. I don’t know why...”

 

“My face being punched, through the oily hood. Cutting the inside of my mouth on my tooth. Blood, horrible taste. And they’re still f-fucking me and won’t stop…”

 

The memories seemed to go on and on, random connections from Martin’s past mixed in with flashes of the event itself. Martin seemed to have given up on his initial coyness about voicing some of the most intimate details, Anna’s acceptance of anything he said apparently overcoming the barriers his sense of humiliation had put up. Whilst Douglas knew logically that this was probably a positive thing, it didn’t make it any easier for him to hear. Especially when he could see Martin’s hands trembling more and more in his lap.

 

Anna had come to the end of the latest series of eye movements. She didn’t prompt Martin this time, knowing he would speak if anything had come up – it hadn’t always, in which case she would just nod and continue. But this time, Martin clearly wanted to say something. His shoulders shuddered.

 

“I was… hard.” He couldn’t look at her, it seemed, staring downwards instead. “I hadn’t really remembered, before… the sensation…” Another shudder ripped through him and Douglas felt as though his heart was about to burst with the grief of it, watching Martin as his face twisted in disgust at himself. “I… got aroused. I… wanted to… to come. And they wouldn’t let me. But... oh, God…” His voice broke, and his hands knotted again as he struggled to continue.

 

Without thinking about it, Douglas reached over, enveloping Martin’s clenched fists in his own grasp, stroking the backs of those blanched white fingers with his thumbs. He wanted so much to make it all stop, to get Martin to see that it was OK, that it wasn’t anything to blame himself for…

 

“It must be my fault.” Martin looked up, seeming to draw strength to speak again from Douglas’ warm hands encompassing his.

 

“What makes you say that?” Anna was calm, non-judgmental.

 

“Because… because… I wouldn’t have had… an erection… if I didn’t want it. Perhaps they read it as – I don’t know, as permission – maybe that was my body saying it was OK –“

 

“ _No_.” Douglas’ voice was fierce. He glared at Anna. _Tell him. Tell him it’s not true._

 

She took in his furious stare, unflinchingly. “Martin. What would you say if you had a partner who was incapacitated in some way – drunk, for example – and who had voiced reluctance about sex? Would you see it as OK to continue as long as they were physically aroused?”

 

Martin sniffed, making Douglas realise for the first time that the captain had begun to cry, quietly. His chest lurched even as Martin spoke. “No. I wouldn’t. I’d stop.”

 

Anna nodded. “You’ve answered your own question, then, I think.”

 

Martin shook harder, rather than seeming comforted. “But – I hate – I hate that they got that response out of me.” His voice caught on a hiccup. “I can’t stand to think – that my stupid _body_ gave any sign… any indication that it was alright.” He pulled his hands gently from Douglas’ in order to wipe his eyes.

 

Douglas had never felt so useless, so helpless. A feeling that was only compounded a hundredfold when Martin unexpectedly turned to him, meeting his eyes for the first time during the session. Agony was burning in the expression mapped on his features. “What must you think of me?” Martin’s voice was barely audible, pure humiliation coursing through every syllable.

 

Whatever Douglas had been expecting Martin to say, it wasn’t that. His stomach clenched painfully. “What I think doesn’t matter,” he choked out, barely keeping back a sob himself. _Douglas Richardson never cries. Get a grip._

 

“It does, it does.” Martin was fervent, still fixing him in the eye, pinning him where he sat with the force of his emotion. “Nothing matters to me more.”

 

“What?” Douglas’ brain revved furiously in neutral. “You can’t mean that.”

 

Martin said nothing, but looked down again, tears flowing freely down his blotchy cheeks, pooling at his chin, where they dripped softly on to Douglas’ hands, resting on the sofa between them.

 

The defeated, humiliated picture of Martin, crumpled in front of him, moved Douglas to his core. Without even thinking it through – not pausing to consider how his actions might be interpreted – he shifted gently closer. Drew Martin firmly into his strong embrace once again, for the first time since they’d been in that hangar two weeks ago. He felt Martin trembling against him, the dampness of his tears soaking through his shirt into his chest, oddly cool in the sudden warmth between the two of them.

 

He spoke, so softly and close to Martin’s ear that he doubted whether Anna could hear him, nearby though she was. “What I think of you shouldn’t matter. But since you think it does… I think you’re brave. And brilliant. And the strongest man I’ve ever known. And that you’ve nothing – _not one thing_ – to be ashamed of.” He paused, tried to gather his thoughts into something more coherent, more compelling, so Martin would believe him. “Anyone – any man – would have had the same… physiological response to stimuli. You were drunk. You were drugged. It wasn’t a reaction you had _any_ control over. And neither I, nor anyone, will ever think any the less of you for it.”

 

Head buried in Douglas’ sturdy, broad chest, Martin sniffed. After a second, he pulled away, leaving Douglas feeling strangely empty, his arms hollow without the captain’s warm presence clutched between them. He met Martin’s eyes, eyes that now looked a little calmer, less pained. His heart was beating fast, that now familiar heat thundering through him that seemed to be triggered whenever he was in contact with Martin. _Don’t let him see_ …

 

Anna’s voice softly broke in to the moment that was spiraling between them, abruptly ending the increasingly intense eye contact. Douglas’ stomach dropped as Martin looked away from him and back to her. A swoop of irrational jealousy took his breath away before logic reasserted itself.

 

She was asking, gently, “Do you feel able to have just one last go before we finish?”

 

Martin considered for a second, before straightening his shoulders. He’d stopped crying, through his cheeks were still damp. “One last go, then,” he said, and Douglas was awed by his bravery.

 

“Good.” Anna raised her hand. “Focus on me.”

 

This time the lateral motion of her fingers went on for a much longer time – at least a minute, if not two. Martin was rigid, staring hard, following her actions closely. Douglas watched in silence, trying to steady the tremors he felt coursing through him as Martin wrestled with his memories, with his emotions.

 

At long last, Anna ceased, replacing her hand in her lap. “Did anything come up?”

 

Martin’s expression cleared a little. “I can remember… being on the flight deck…” Anna waited silently for him to continue. “I was… with the engineer. The one Douglas sent.”

 

Douglas remembered. _The hydro failure_.

 

“Leo.” Martin suddenly sounded sure of himself.

 

Douglas’ own mind flickered in recognition. “Boris said he’d send his friend Leo.” He voiced the memory that had just lit up in his own subconscious.

 

“Yes…” Martin frowned, cudgeling his brain. “He fixed the hydro failure…”

 

“Can you remember any more?” Anna prompted gently, as Martin fell silent again.

 

“He said… that he wanted to practice his English.”

 

 _Such a stupid line_. Douglas felt an irrational wave of anger flooding him as Martin kept speaking.

 

“He invited me… to have a drink with his friends.” Martin had once again begun to shake. “I didn’t want to go… but he said that Douglas was there.”

 

“He said _what_?” Douglas’ voice was abruptly loud in the quiet room. Martin didn’t look at him.

 

“He told me to come. To drink with Boris and Douglas. That you –“ Martin turned to Douglas again. “That you’d told him to tell me that. That you’d be there.”

 

Douglas could hear blood pulsing in his ears, a whooshing, thundering hammering filling his consciousness. “I didn’t. I never said anything of the sort.” His hands quivered. “I saw Boris, for five minutes, to hand over the baked beans.” _Who knows what Anna will make of that?_  “I told him that our hydraulics were out, I asked if he could send an engineer… Oh God. That’s all. I never… I never thought…”

 

“Douglas?” Anna’s voice was enquiring, caring. But he couldn’t look at her. Or Martin.

 

“Boris waved over this man from the corner of the room we were in. Introduced him as the engineer. I said you…” Guilt was breaking inside him, rushing through him like water through rapids, swirling and foaming. “I said you were waiting on board.”

 

Martin’s eyes were glassy. “It was him, I think. Blonde hair?”

 

Douglas nodded, wordlessly. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t betray his turbulent emotions. He felt like a statue, fixed to the spot.

 

Once again, Anna’s compassionate voice broke in on the concentrated moment between the two of them. “Alright, Martin… Douglas. I think we’d better stop there for now.” She focused on the captain. “Martin, how are you feeling after today?”

 

Martin forced his attention back to her, speaking a bit quaveringly. “Oh – OK I think. A little shaky. Sick.”

 

She smiled, reassuringly. “Again, to be expected. But please believe that you’ve done really well. This will all be worth it. To give us something to compare it to – if I ask you now how strongly you believe your statement that ‘it was my fault’, what score would you give me out of ten?

 

“About… six, I think.” Martin sounded a little surprised. "It feels - strange. A bit... further away, somehow."

 

She nodded. “Good. That’s good. If you recall, you rated that belief as an eight at the start of the session. If we persevere, I think we’ll continue to make significant progress. It will be difficult, as today has proved, but I really believe it will help in the long run.”

 

Martin sighed, relaxed a little. Douglas was still rooted to the spot, his brain unable to process what he’d learnt. He realized that Anna was surveying him.

 

“Right,” she said. “Martin – could you maybe step outside for a second? Just have a seat in the waiting room. I’d like to have a quick word with Douglas.”

 

Martin acknowledged her request, rising and heading out of the door, casting an extremely worried glance back at the first officer as he did so. Douglas barely registered what was going on, his mind consumed with all-powerful shame, guilt, rage…

 

“Douglas.” Martin had closed the door, and he looked up as Anna firmly spoke his name. “Are you alright?”

 

Still wordlessly, he shook his head.

 

“Are you being helped through this?”

 

“Me?” He was confused.

 

“Yes. You’re going through something tremendously traumatic.”

 

“No, it’s Martin – Martin that needs help.”

 

He watched as she looked him over, assessing. “Martin needs help, yes. But so do you.”

 

He felt as if someone had plunged an icicle down his throat, into his chest. “I don’t deserve help.” Too late, he became aware of what he’d said.

 

She pounced, even if it was a gentle pounce, the sort a kitten might make on to a ball of string. “It’s very interesting you should phrase your statement like that.”

 

He tried to roll his eyes, act casual. “I didn’t mean it.”

 

“I think you did.” She wouldn’t stop looking at him. He squirmed.

 

“OK… so maybe I did.” He shrugged, essaying nonchalance, betrayed by the nausea tugging at his mouth. “It doesn’t stop it being true. I don't deserve - don’t need help.”

 

“Have you had counselling before?”

 

He nodded. “Eight years ago. For… alcoholism.” He didn’t like the knowing look that suddenly came into her eyes, felt an irrational impulse to storm out, run away, not look back.

 

“All the more reason to access support now.”

 

“ _No_.” He stood up. “It’s not – I don’t –“

 

She stood up as well, laying a steadying hand on his arm. “Everyone deserves help, especially with something as devastating as this.”

 

He violently shook his head, though feeling his resolve begin to waver in the face of her kind words.

 

“Douglas. You cannot effectively support Martin – be there for your friend – if you are falling apart yourself.”

 

 _Damn_. An argument that would work where hundreds of others might have failed. His shoulders sagged. “What do you suggest I do?”

 

“Make an appointment. Not with me – with a colleague. Or your former therapist, whichever you’re more comfortable with. Will you do that?”

 

He thought about it for a second. Mentally probed the guilt, the anger, the shame, the – the – _affection_ … for Martin…

 

“Oh, alright,” he grumpily acquiesced, trying desperately to shove everything he was feeling deep, deep down and hide it away.

 

“Good.” She smiled at him. “I really, really think it’s important.”

 

“So you’ve said.” He glared at her for a moment, noting that this fazed her not a jot.

 

“Well done for today. You really helped Martin.”

 

“Did I?” He wasn’t sure whether he had or not, doubted he’d been of any use.

 

“Yes. He’s very lucky to have a friend like you.”

 

Another cold twist in his guts. _No, he isn’t_. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “Good to meet you.”

 

“You too – goodbye. Look after yourself.” She saw him out, and he could feel her watching him as he walked to the waiting room to collect Martin. It was what he’d always hated about therapists – too bloody perceptive.

 

Martin wasn’t sitting down in the room, but rather pacing about, waiting for him. He looked up as Douglas poked his head round the door. “There you are. Are you… alright?”

 

Douglas tried to make light of it. “That’s my line.”

 

“No, Douglas.” Martin wasn’t having it, appearing nearly frantic with worry. “Is everything OK? Was it all too much for you?”

 

Douglas sighed, beckoned him to come outside with him. They began walking back to his car. “It was that last bit.” It was his turn to speak quietly. “The thought that… the thought that I sent… him… to you…”

 

Martin shook his head firmly. “You weren’t to know.”

 

“I know.” Douglas unlocked the car, hanging his head. “But… like you said, a few weeks ago – it doesn’t help.”

 

“You’re not responsible.” Martin sounded calm and controlled – a contrast to his wavering voice from the appointment.

 

Douglas could only shake his head as he stared at the floor. He heard Martin step much, much nearer to him.

 

“It’s not your fault.” Martin’s voice was very close by, now. “It’s _not_ your fault.”

 

He couldn’t speak. Knew if he did, he would cry – and he couldn’t do that.

 

Martin seemed to sense the power of the emotions battling within him, raising a hand to his arm, tentatively. Douglas caught the movement in the corner of his eye, looking up. He met Martin’s eyes, seeing nothing but acceptance. He could only imagine what Martin was seeing in his face in comparison. _I’m breaking_.

 

And it seemed as if his wish was the father of Martin’s thought as the shorter man quietly stepped forward and caught him into an enormous, firm embrace, his arms encircling Douglas in the ultimate expression of comfort. Douglas felt everything inside him split open, fall away, defences evaporating like mist in the sunlight. For the first time since he was a boy he wept, crying hoarsely into Martin’s shoulder, as the world turned around them and they folded softly into each other, not noticing.


	16. Flying solo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas seeks out some help of his own, while Martin comes to an important decision.

“Hello again, Douglas.” Eve sounded almost as surprised in greeting him in person as she had done on the phone when he'd rung. He tried to smile at her, but all that came out was a twisty sort of grimace. “Come in, take a seat.” She crossed to her usual chair and sat down opposite him. A rush of memories of the dozens of times the two of them had enacted this exact scene during his therapy in the past swamped him. Eight years. He never thought he’d be back.

 

“How have you been?” She looked at him over the top of her pince-nez, enquiringly.

 

He cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. “Yes. Fine. Mostly.” He felt desperately awkward, discomfited, as he always had when subjected to her x-ray gaze. “Managing to stay off the sauce.” _Just about_.

 

She smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. Well done you.”

 

He nodded in acknowledgement. Opened his mouth. Shut it again.

 

Eve read his nervousness. “So, you say things have mostly been fine. That’s really good. Are you working again now?”

 

“Yes. I’m at a small charter firm – MJN Air, at Fitton. I’m a first officer. Not a captain anymore.” A familiar needle of ignominy lanced him, briefly.

 

“I see. It’s good to hear you’re keeping busy.” She paused, eyed him again. “How are you finding it?”

 

He knew she was trying to relax him with easy questions, getting him to open up in true counseling fashion. “I… well, it’s not Air England. But I like it. I like the people I work with.” Martin’s face flashed before his eyes and he winced before he could stop himself.

 

“I see.” She looked thoughtful, noting his flinch. “Is it work that’s brought you to see me today?”

 

“No. Well – yes. No. Sort of.” He sighed in frustration. Douglas Richardson was _never_ inarticulate - or at least, never used to be.

 

“Can you explain that a bit more?” She waited patiently for him to answer.

 

He took a deep breath. He’d rehearsed explaining on the way over in the car – why did it suddenly seem so impossible? “OK. OK… OK.” Another big breath. “Well… a couple of months ago, something – happened. I mean – the actual thing happened two months ago. I only found out three weeks later. That is – oh, I’m doing a rubbish job of explaining.” He stuttered out of words, impotently furious with himself.

 

“You’re doing fine. Take your time.” She raised her pen, ready to take notes. “I’m listening.”

 

“My captain –“ there was Martin’s face again, distracting him. “My captain – his name is Martin. He’s younger than me. We get on… alright. He’s improving, as a pilot. Can be stupidly proud. Irritating. But…” _How can I explain without sounding daft_? “… I suppose you could say we’ve become friends. He’s… nice. When he’s not pulling rank. I suppose – I feel – a bit responsible for him.” He stopped, heaved in another breath.

 

“He did something to you?”

 

“No! No, not at all.” Douglas’ brow was creased in frustration with himself for not being more eloquent. “We flew a cargo trip to Riga. There was a technical fault with the plane, so I sent an engineer…” Leo’s face, blurred in his memory, swam to the front of his brain, curling nausea filling him. “Martin was waiting on the plane, and I went back to the hotel. I didn’t know… didn’t know.” He was desperate for her to understand, for her to believe that he hadn’t intended what happened. He gulped, continued. “The engineer – he told Martin I was waiting for him – that I’d said to meet him and his _friends_ for a drink. I hadn’t. Martin believed him. Went with him… and they got him drunk.” He wasn’t sure how to continue.

 

Eve’s calm expression hadn’t altered. “Go on.” When he didn’t, she prompted him again, gently. “You can do it.”

 

He suddenly remembered how brave Martin had been, continuing in the EMDR session, the determined set of his jaw despite his tears. Douglas felt shamed in comparison and forced himself to keep speaking.

 

“They drugged him as well, so he was nearly unconscious. And then – then… the engineer and two other men… they r-r-raped him.” There was no way his brain wouldn’t let him stammer over the hideous word. “They all had him. Abused him. Kept drugging him so he’d forget everything – except the pain afterwards, I suppose. And then they just dumped him, back on GERTI – the plane. They didn’t care.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice was deeply sympathetic as he fought to maintain control of himself. “You were back at your hotel, you say?”

 

He nodded.

 

“How did you discover what had taken place?”

 

The guilt had only seemed to intensify over time, rather than dispersing. He spoke dully, praying she wouldn’t probe too deeply beneath the surface of his words. “They filmed what had happened. Put it online, as a sick – _sick_ – porn movie.” Perhaps his vehemence would absolve him of responsibility… no. Nothing would. “My boss’ ex-husband doesn’t like me – hates me, in fact. Wanted to get revenge on me for something I’d done to him, a year ago. He found the footage, saw it was Martin, and sent it to me.” A torrent of unwanted remembrances streamed through his head, making him shudder into silence.

 

“You watched the film?”

 

“Yes.” His head suddenly flew up defensively. “Yes – but – I didn’t realise what it was – I thought it was fake. I couldn’t see that it was Martin; they’d covered his face. I thought… I thought that it was four bad actors. That the moaning was just part of the scene. That whoever it was being… being abused like that was being paid for the privilege… or even getting off on it. Until…”

 

“Until…?” she asked, gently.

 

“Until they pulled the hood off at the end. And I saw it was my captain.” _His head lolling, mouth bleeding, eyes dead_ … A convulsive judder shook him from head to toe.

 

She reached a hand to him. “OK. You’re OK.”

 

He nodded, slowly, mastering himself again.

 

“So, you saw the film – three weeks later?” She took his silence as acquiescence, continued. “What happened after that?”

 

He sketched out the nightmare of the weeks since. Martin, coming to live with him. Stopping him leaping off the bridge in despair. Hearing his nightmares every night. Calming his panic in the hangar. Attending counseling with him, watching the captain try – and fail – to hide his feelings, to protect Douglas. Feeling so helpless and guilty and useless…

 

He eventually faltered to a stop, running out of words. He was grateful that she hadn’t interrupted, that she’d let him get it all out, except that now he didn’t know what to say.

 

“It sounds like you’ve been going through a really awful time, Douglas.”

 

Guilt spasmed within him again. “Me? No, no. It’s Martin that’s suffering. I’m fine. Well – not fine. But he’s the one this happened to. I don’t deser- I mean, I don’t need help.” He knew how stupid he sounded, how panicky. He’d always hated her getting too close to the truth. It felt too vulnerable and raw.

 

“Just because Martin’s suffering, it doesn’t mean that you aren’t as well.” She spoke carefully.

 

“I know. It’s just… he’s much more important than me.”

 

“Really?” Her tone was challenging, if soft.

 

He nodded, fervently. Didn’t dare meet her eyes for fear that she’d see the ghastly truth of the shame within.

 

“I’d like you to try and take a deep breath, now. With me.” She inhaled a long, slow draw of air before exhaling, as he echoed her action, feeling the shakiness recede, just a little. “Now – do your best to step back a bit. Listen.” She paused, to give him time to calm himself. “How do you feel if I say it sounds as though both you _and_ Martin have each experienced a serious trauma in the last few weeks?”

 

“Me?” Douglas was taken aback.

 

“Yes.” Eve regarded him steadily. “Martin’s is obvious, of course – anyone would say that he’d suffered a severely traumatic experience. But what you went through was devastating in its own way.”

 

He shook his head, couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t have understood him properly.

 

She expounded further, seeing his disbelief. “There’s a specific type of trauma that arises from witnessing a distressing situation – it’s very common afterwards to suffer feelings of recurring dread, upset, guilt – it’s to do with the powerlessness – lacking the ability to influence what’s occurred. Does any of that sound familiar?” She was staring hard at him, he could feel it.

 

“Yes.” His voice was so quiet he was amazed that she even heard him. “But – you don’t understand. I _know_ why I feel guilty. And it’s not that.” Oh God. He was getting perilously close to telling her. _I can’t_.

 

“What is it?” He didn’t answer. “Douglas. Do you remember how important you discovered that honesty was in recovery, last time?”

 

He did, but still couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “It’s unforgiveable.”

 

“I won’t run away.” Her voice was compassionate. “I proved that before, didn’t I?”

 

Some of the terrible things he’d told her when he was last in therapy crossed his mind. _Forgetting Verity in the car for an hour while I drank. That flight to Ibiza where I knew I was still tipsy from the night before. Letting Alice come home from that conference to find me passed out in a puddle of my own vomit_ … If there was anyone on Earth who had an accurate impression of all his most hideous moments, it was Eve. _And yet_ … he still wavered, his fears warring with the incipient desire to finally get his shameful act into the open, not have to hug it to his chest in vile secrecy any longer…

 

Finally, he made up his mind. “When I watched it… I did think it was porn, I did…” He still needed to convince her that maybe it was defensible, even while everything inside him screamed at him that it wasn’t. “But – I think – a big part of me knew that something was wrong. Off. I ignored it. I wanted to be clever. Wanted to get back at the man who sent it to me.” His hands were shaking. “And… I never really watch anything like that… and it had been a long, long time since I’d looked at a man – at men – in _that_ way.” He knew a hot flush of shame was colouring his cheeks. Found it difficult to continue.

 

She seemed to guess where he was headed. “Douglas.” He looked up at her, reluctantly. “Did you find it arousing, while you watched it?”

 

Mutely, he nodded. “I thought… I reasoned that the man who sent it to me wanted me to squeal in revulsion. So I concluded… an insane part of me decided… to enjoy it. No matter what it was.”

 

Her facial expression hadn’t changed. She wasn’t recoiling in horror – yet, at least…

 

“I was arrogant. I thought I knew best.” _She has to understand just how ghastly I am_. “I… some horrible part of me… got off on it. Seeing them come all over him –“ His insides cringed, nauseatingly. “I hadn’t exactly meant to, but I didn’t think about it…”

 

She finished the sentence for him. “You came as well?”

 

Completely consumed by guilt and anguish, he nodded, unable to speak for a moment. “I still didn’t know it was Martin, at the time – was still telling myself it was all fake, even though any fool could guess there was something wrong.” He couldn’t believe she hadn’t left the room, wasn’t shouting at him or staring at him with disgust.

 

Instead, she simply asked him another, calm question. “And what happened when you saw it was him?”

 

He blinked. “I… I was sick. The shock… it was as if my brain short-circuited.”

 

“That’s an intensely physical reaction, Douglas.”

 

“I know.”

 

“How would you characterize a response like that?”

 

“What do you mean?” He wasn’t sure what she was getting at.

 

“Well, I suppose… when faced with the reality of the situation, once you knew for sure that it wasn’t four actors – that you’d genuinely witnessed the abuse of your friend –“ A familiar, unexpected surge of longing abruptly gripped Douglas’ heart. _Friend isn’t strong enough. I love – no, no, no._ He made himself focus. “Once you understood what you’d seen, what were your emotions then?”

 

“Um…” He cast his mind back. “Horror. Shock. Disbelief. I was angry… I wanted to shout… ‘not him’.” The feelings pulsed through him afresh and he clutched his hands together to cease their trembling.

 

“Can you see how your responses at each step of the situation might be less transgressive than you think? Trace them through with me.”

 

“You’re making excuses for me.” He wouldn’t believe her.

 

“Is that my job?”

 

“No….” He still wouldn’t allow himself to be let off the hook so easily.

 

“Let’s look at it in stages. So, first, you’re sent a video from someone you consider an enemy. Who you don’t want to beat you. Correct?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What did you feel then?”

 

“Curiosity. Trepidation. I suppose… self-assurance. I didn’t believe that Gordon – that’s the man – could best me. I didn’t want him to win.”

 

“OK. And then – you watch the video. Discover that it’s highly explicit, different from anything you’ve seen before, am I right?”

 

“Yes…” He knew she wanted him to list his feelings again, but struggled to separate them out from the shame that came after. She seemed to decide to help him.

 

“From what you’ve told me, I’d guess you felt powerful, defiant. Confident. And that part of this confidence helped you to feel aroused by images that might not have otherwise affected you so strongly. Does that sound accurate to you?”

 

“I’m not sure.”

 

“Well, have you previously felt any proclivities for men in bondage situations?”

 

“Men – yes. When I was a lot younger. Bondage, not at all.” An honest answer, but he still felt ashamed.

 

“And when you were younger, were you at peace with your preferences, or did cultural prejudices lead you to feel somewhat guilty about your attraction to other men?”

 

“I – I suppose… prejudices played a part.” He cast his mind back, could instantly recall dozens of bigoted jokes from the schoolyard, from his early days at Air England. “But – I was always attracted to women just as much. So I never really thought too much about… men. Once I was in my twenties, at least.”

 

“That makes sense. But can you see how that makes the likely impact of those images even more powerful? That suddenly you are presented with a depiction of not just something taboo – which in itself can be immensely arousing given the right conditions – but also that you are being strongly urged by what you’re seeing to give free rein to a long-suppressed attraction, in supposed safety and privacy?”

 

 _She’s being logical. I don’t deserve logic_. His mind fought against the rationale, the guilt still needling him. He shook his head, but slowly.

 

“The last stage – your response when you realized that what you’d seen wasn’t consensual at all, that it was a good friend who’d been put in a terrible position. You described your emotions on the discovery as –“ She read back from her pad of paper. “Horror, shock, disbelief, anger.” She looked up again. “Is that an appropriate – or rather, typical – reaction to a trauma, would you say?”

 

He considered for a long time, silence stretching between them. “I know what I want to say. I want to say… yes. But I’m worried I’m letting myself off too easily.”

 

“Try turning the situation round, then. How would you feel if the situation were reversed? If it was Martin telling you what you’ve told me – what would you say to him?”

 

 _Not a fair question_. His heart stuttered as he considered Martin, intense desire threatening to swallow him whole. He could picture him so clearly – that curly ginger hair, the piercing green eyes, a familiar, endearingly exasperated expression filling his face –

 

“I’d say to him – I’d say that it didn’t matter – that it was fine, that he couldn’t help it, he didn’t mean to –“ He buried his head in his hands. “But that’s not a fair test.”

 

She sounded a little surprised. “Why not?”

 

Without stopping to think about it, Douglas blurted it all out – everything he’d meant to conceal streaming forth. “Because – I feel things for Martin – I know I shouldn’t. It’s all in the last month – I can’t stop thinking about him – dreaming about him – I don’t want to, I don’t want to, but… oh _God_ , I think I’m in love with him – but that’s awful, shocking, dreadful – I saw him get raped, I’m supposed to be taking care of him… I feel like I’ve become some sort of – predator – that my mind’s betrayed me – and I’m so scared that he’ll find out, that he’ll guess, and then I’ll lose him and my heart will break, _again_ – because I can see, now… he’s everything to me. Everything. And he deserves so much better.” He still had his head in his hands, hunched himself forward. Was horribly afraid that he was about to cry again – but he’d never done that in front of her, never.

 

“Douglas.” She sounded unshaken, to his amazement. He’d fully expected anyone he told to punch him, so unacceptable did he believe his feelings to be. “Douglas. I’m not surprised you feel so guilty and confused.”

 

“It’s all so wrong.” His voice was shaking.

 

“I’m not sure that that’s how I’d characterize what’s going on.”

 

“You’re not?” He wouldn’t let himself feel hopeful. He couldn’t stand the crushing letdown if he was incorrect.

 

“No. The experiences you’ve described to me are very charged, highly emotional, yes?”

 

He nodded, silently.

 

“Do you find it surprising that something so intense would prompt you to re-evaluate your feelings towards your friend – someone I’d imagine you’d only ever looked at in a professional context before?”

 

He still couldn’t answer her. She carried on. “He’s been living with you, you’ve been taking care of him – you have both been thrown into far closer proximity than you’d ever have expected, with feelings running very near to the surface…”

 

“Are you saying it’s not true? That I don’t feel how I think I do, suddenly - it's all a mistake?” That should have been a hopeful thought. _Why do I feel so desolate_?

 

Eve shook her head. “No – only you can assess your emotions, know what you’re really feeling. What I’m trying to say is – consider this. Is it the footage you saw that inspired your new attitude to Martin, or in fact is it being able to see his vulnerability where you couldn’t before – the fact that he’s probably being more honest and open about things with you – that he’s relying on you in a new way?”

 

Douglas was taken aback. He’d been so horrified by the realization of what he felt, so terrified that it had been sparked by seeing Martin in a sexual light (especially since that sex was so abusive), he hadn’t even considered whether the truth was more emotionally-based. Less carnally-focused. _But – the dreams -_ He cleared his throat.

 

“I keep dreaming about him.” He was so chagrined, still, by this. “He wouldn’t let anyone touch him, since – still won’t – except… me. He seems to find me comforting. He even gave _me_ a hug, the other day, when I was upset –“ _And I wished it had never had to end – wanted to stay in his arms forever_. “But all the time I feel so guilty. I want to tell him how shamefully I acted – that I betrayed him so badly, with the video – that he deserves a far better friend than a thrice-divorced ex-alcoholic who got his rocks off to a rape – to _his_ rape.” Pure disgust with himself throbbed in his voice. “But it doesn’t stop me dreaming… I want him. I don’t know how to deal with it.” He had never felt so wretched.

 

She was studying him, kindly. “You say he hugged you?”

 

He nodded again, woefully.

 

“It sounds as though you’re supporting each other, to some extent.”

 

“I – I suppose…” Douglas wasn’t sure. “He’s moving out today – finally going back home. Says he’s ready.”

 

“How do you feel about that?”

 

“Scared. For him. The nightmares seem to be improving, a bit, but I just keep thinking about how I found him at Clifton Suspension Bridge – I’m frightened he might not call me if that happens again.”

 

She inclined her head, understandingly. “It’s perfectly natural to still worry about someone who’s been in that position. It’ll take a while, I suspect, for that fear to abate. How do you feel about having your house back? Will you be on your own?”

 

“Yes. I’m divorced again. I feel…” He sighed, ran his hands distractedly through his hair. “I know he thinks he’s just been an inconvenience, but – I’m going to miss him. I mean, obviously I want him not to be suffering still – I want him to feel strong enough to go. It’s just that… so much of the last few weeks has been shaped around looking after him. I _wanted_ to do it. I – I don’t know how to keep helping him… I guess at least he’ll have fewer chances to spot how I feel about him, which can only be a good thing.”

 

“Is that right?”

 

“Of course.” Again, the feeling of desolation, coursing through him.

 

She regarded him, head slightly tipped to the side. It made her look a little like a magpie. “How do you think Martin would react if he knew how you felt?”

 

 _Unthinkable_. “I think he’d be appalled.”

 

“Really? Does he like men?”

 

“I… don’t know. I know he’s had girlfriends before, but he’s said nothing about men.” Douglas coughed a humourless laugh. “And after what happened, I can’t imagine he’d _ever_ contemplate being with one again. Much less someone like me. It’s hopeless.”

 

“OK...” She nodded, but did he detect a touch of hesitation in her tone? _Surely not. I’m right_.

 

She cleared her throat, breaking his reverie. “We’re coming up to the end of our time. How do you feel about coming to see me again – maybe next week?”

 

“Do you think it’s necessary?”

 

“Well, it’s up to you. I think there are certainly some feelings you’ve mentioned today that it would be useful to explore in more depth. And I'd say there are certain statements – or assumptions – that you’ve made that we could look at challenging. But it’s whatever you think will be helpful.”

 

He weighed up her proposition. He certainly felt a little – a tiny bit – better than he had when he’d walked in. The guilt seemed a touch less biting, his shoulders less burdened. The memory of lifting the drink to his lips at Cannes, of only just conquering his old urges, was suddenly very fresh. Douglas nodded, reluctantly. “I… I’d like to come back.” He unexpectedly felt like crying again, but squashed the feeling hastily. “I… think I need some help.”

 

She smiled, reassurance evident in her expression. “And you know that admitting that is a huge positive step.”

 

“Cliché,” he muttered, resentfully.

 

“But with a big kernel of truth at its heart, you know.”

 

“I know.” Reluctantly.

 

“OK. Shall we say the same time next week?”

 

* * *

 

Douglas pulled back on to his drive, the white gravel scrunching beneath the car tyres. He’d been glad of the half an hour journey – needed the time to stop his thoughts whirling. _Eve didn’t tell me I was evil._ A tiny flare of relief crept through him as he got out and walked to the front door. _But do I believe her_? He still wasn’t sure.

 

He unlocked the door and let himself in. “Hello?”

 

“Hi, Douglas – we’re in here.” Martin’s tones sounded almost happy, pleased at his return. He took a moment to make the most of the welcome – knowing it would be gone tomorrow, the house empty again.

 

Pulling himself together, he wandered into the lounge. Surprise flashed over his face. “Herc?” The other captain was sitting comfortably on his armchair. “What are you doing here?” He was filled with sudden concern, turning worriedly to Martin. “Are you OK? Did something happen?”

 

“No, no.” Martin was quick to reassure him. “I hope you don’t mind – I asked Herc to come round.”

 

“Evening, Douglas.” Herc raised a languid hand, which Douglas didn’t acknowledge.

 

“I wanted his advice,” Martin explained.

 

“ _His_ advice?” Sarcasm dripped from Douglas’ voice – where Herc was concerned, he just didn’t seem to be able to help it. Martin looked uncomfortable, and Douglas felt suddenly guilty. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

 

Martin took a breath. “Well – it was something Arthur said, while we were in Cannes. He made me think… I suppose before then I hadn’t realized that _they_ …” He paused, throat jerking convulsively, before continuing. “That they might have done it before. Or again. I mean… that it might not just be me.”

 

Douglas didn’t react. Similar thoughts had been nagging at him almost since the day he found out. The setup had been too slick – too well-prepared to be a one-off… but Martin had been in no shape to have this pointed out to him. The only thing Douglas had been concentrating on was helping him to survive day-to-day; everything else was secondary.

 

Martin continued. “It’s been bothering me. And now – after the EMDR – I have some more… memories back…” he shuddered, unable to help himself, “I’ve been thinking – maybe I have a duty. To make sure they can’t hurt anyone else.”

 

“O…K…” Douglas was trying not to feel too hopeful. _Don’t get ahead of yourself. He might not mean it_.

 

“And today – while you were out shopping –“ Douglas hadn’t told him where he’d really been, afraid it would bring on another attack of Martin’s guilt. “Well, I had some more time to think. And I’ve decided…” He took a deep breath, looked over at Herc.

 

Herc picked up his sentence. “Martin wants to investigate getting the police involved.”

 

“Really?” Douglas didn’t dare believe it. He’d been hoping for this – but simultaneously scared of it – what Martin would have to go through –

 

“Yes.” Martin looked back at him, nerves showing in his eyes. “I wanted to ask Herc how to go about it – because of his brother.“

 

“The lawyer?”

 

“No – well, sort of. Actually, it was more that I remembered that you said Herc’s brother was a diplomat in Estonia. I have no idea how you go about involving another nation’s police. You’d think it’s the kind of thing they’d teach pilots, but…” Martin trailed off with an embarrassed shrug.

 

“I’ve said I’ll speak to Wellington,” Herc said, looking over at Douglas, who knew he was displaying the flabbergasted feelings that were flooring him. “I don’t know how to involve Latvian police either, but I’m sure he will.”

 

“OK.” Douglas let that information wash over him – right now, he was more concerned about Martin. He flopped down on the sofa next to him, feeling completely blindsided by the turn events had taken. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Worry mixed with hope churned inside his belly.

 

Martin met his eyes, steadily – still nervous, but apparently committed. “I’m sure. I mean – Arthur said… you’d all be there for me… if that’s OK – I don’t think I can do this on my own –“

 

Douglas’ breath left him in a rush. “Of _course_ we’ll be there for you, you silly sod,” he said, relief and fear making him irreverent, praying Martin would still perceive the serious intent beneath. “What do you think we’ve been doing all these weeks?”

 

Martin gave a hint of his old smile. “I know – I just keep being afraid that I’m asking too much.”

 

“Never.” Douglas was firm.

 

“Absolutely not.” Herc echoed him with equal certainty.

 

Martin looked from one to the other of them. He took a deep breath. “OK. Let’s do this.”

 

“I’ll call Wellington tonight.” Herc stood up to leave, Douglas seeing him out.

 

“Thanks,” Martin called. “Bye.”

 

Herc and Douglas’ eyes met as the other captain exited through the front door. For the first time that Douglas could ever remember, they appeared to be feeling exactly the same. Optimism, seasoned with a healthy dose of trepidation, contradictory though that seemed.

 

“Bye, Herc.” Douglas waved him off, before heading back into the lounge.

 

He resumed his seat by Martin. “So. Big day.”

 

“Yep.” Martin half-smiled, clearly still a little scared by the enormity of what was happening.

 

“Do you still want me to take you home tonight? You really don’t have to leave – but I saw your stuff was ready in the hall.” Douglas tried hard not to lace his voice with expectation, the words _please stay_ running through his mind, over and over.

 

“Yeah… I think it’s time I went.” Martin stood up. “Thank you so much. For having me. I can’t believe you let me stay so many weeks.”

 

“It’s nothing.” Douglas knew Martin wouldn’t accept his words as the truth they were.

 

“No, it meant everything. _Thank_ you.” Martin met his eyes, and Douglas’ stomach swooped again.

 

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. _Don’t go_. “Well – whenever you’re ready.”

 

Martin nodded. “I’m ready now, if you like.”

 

They walked to the door together. “You know you’re always welcome. Call or come round anytime.” Douglas felt more desperate than he’d expected to. Hoped it didn’t show.

 

Martin grabbed up his bags, following Douglas out of the house. “Thanks. I’m so grateful.”

 

Douglas shut the front door, watching as Martin got into his Lexus.

 

“You coming?” Martin sounded a little bewildered, noticing him hesitate.

 

“Of course.” He hurried into the car, trying his best to seem casual, all the while his emotions tumbling chaotically within him. Martin’s stay was over. Something new was starting.


	17. ID

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The police have news for Martin and Douglas - but first they need their help...

“Engines shut down… and, done.” Martin leaned back in his seat with a weary sigh. He’d been back at work for a full four weeks now, but his stamina seemed to have gone out of the window.

 

“Tired?” Douglas looked over at him sympathetically.

 

Martin gave a weary nod. “I had four van jobs yesterday on top of that flight to Glasgow.”

 

Douglas looked scandalized. “You’re going to wear yourself to a shadow if you keep this up! You need to rest.”

 

“I can’t,” Martin snapped, a little more harshly than he’d intended. “Seven weeks where I earned nothing, remember? My savings are almost gone.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

 

Douglas looked wounded. “Of course I understand, Martin. But Arthur and I have both offered to help. We’d come and do the heavy lifting, you know we would. That way it wouldn’t be so exhausting.”

 

Martin’s pride flashed angrily inside him, but he tried to rein in his temper. “I know. And I’m grateful. But I have to get back on my feet myself. I’m sick of feeling useless.”

 

“Martin…” Douglas sounded as if he wanted to say something contradictory, but before he could, Arthur burst into the flight deck.

 

“All done!” His familiar smile stretched from ear to ear. “Passengers all packed off and I’ve done the tidying up. You chaps ready to head home?”

 

“Yep.” Martin nodded before Douglas could say anything else. “Let’s go.” He heard the first officer sigh at the change of subject before he followed him out of the cockpit.

 

“Wasn’t Glasgow _brilliant_?” Arthur was asking.

 

“Hmm.” Douglas clearly didn’t want to engage with the steward just now, which gave Martin the worrying suspicion that he hadn’t finished trying to force his captain to accept his help. Before he could figure out what to do about it, they’d reached the portacabin. Arthur pushed the door open to go in, still prattling away about shortbread, kilts and the Clyde. Douglas and Martin followed him inside, the slightly stuffy air enveloping them as they left the mild chill of the airfield outside.

 

All three were brought up short by Carolyn’s familiar, less-than-dulcet tones. “Ah. You’re back. How did it go?”

 

“All fine,” Martin answered briskly. _Good. That sounded like my old voice._

 

“Plane locked? Both wings still on? In general, not broken and ready to fly again tomorrow?” All three nodded, Arthur throwing in a jaunty salute for good measure. “Good. In that case – Arthur, go and get in the car, I’ll drive us home.” Martin wandered over to his locker to collect his things as Arthur left, acknowledging the cheery wave as the steward disappeared through the door. He was surprised when Carolyn spoke again. “Martin.” She sounded a touch hesitant, suddenly. Creeping nerves, never far from his being for the past two months, unfurled little tendrils in his stomach. “There’s a message for you.”

 

“Oh yes?” He turned, trying at first to sound casual. _Who’d be phoning me at work_? He was abruptly panicky. “Mum’s not ill again, is she?”

 

“No, no.” She spoke quickly to forestall his agitation. “Err – well, Fitton police called for you.” Martin was very aware of Douglas freezing, stopping rooting round his locker in order to listen. “They would like you to go in – this afternoon, ideally. Ask for Sergeant Bell.”

 

“Did they say why?” Martin felt as if his voice was coming from a long way away. He wished Douglas would stop watching him.

 

“No – just that they’d like to see you.” She gave him a glance that didn’t entirely succeed in concealing her concern. “Well – I’d better go and play chauffeur to Arthur. Douglas – you lock up here.”

 

“Wilco, ma’am.” Douglas’ smooth, slightly sarcastic tones sounded perfectly ordinary, despite the tension visible in his posture – he was evidently going to attempt normality, Martin thought absently, his brain whirring.

 

“See you tomorrow.” Carolyn turned to leave, before pausing with her hand on the door. “And Martin – good luck.”

 

He didn’t answer. Just nodded. She left.

 

He turned back to his locker, trying to think logically about what he needed to pick up and what he needed to leave behind. His thought processes felt suddenly gluey, tangled. _What do they want with me?_

 

It had been a fortnight since the horrible day where he’d gone and made the report of what had happened. A month since he’d moved out of Douglas’ house and back to the attic. The police had been kind, understanding; they had done everything they possibly could to make him feel at ease as he related the hideous events. Talking to Anna over his past few appointments had helped to make discussing the attack seem a little less impossible, but he still felt horribly humiliated as he gradually described everything he could remember. Particularly since the two detectives who were listening were both such tall, strong men. He couldn’t help feeling weak and pathetic in comparison – especially given the nature of what he had to tell them.

 

The only way he’d managed to get through his story was when he’d realized that the older of the two detectives actually reminded him of Douglas, in some ways. It was something about the look in his eyes – fierce intelligence gentled by unexpected kindness, all whilst his body language radiated calmness, competence. He’d focused on that man, ignoring his younger colleague. _So what if the junior one thinks I’m rude_? He’d stumbled on with his explanation, words stuttering from him, trying to conceal his roiling emotions as he spoke – not entirely succeeding.

 

The police had taken copious notes, got him to sign a statement and had said they’d liaise with the hospital to arrange for collection and testing of the samples that had been gathered the previous month when Douglas had taken him to be checked over. And the Douglas-a-like had also let him know that they would be collaborating with the Latvian police – but that such things took a while to set up. That they’d contact him as soon as there was anything to communicate.

 

 _So now there’s something they want to share._ He shivered. _What_?

 

“Are you alright?” Douglas’ voice broke into his reverie.

 

For a moment, he thought about pretending, about brushing him off, like he had with the situation with the van jobs, just. But Anna’s advice – _trust your friends_ – suddenly floated across his mind.

 

“No. Not really.” _Honesty it is_.

 

“I didn’t think so.” Douglas sounded concerned, but not condescending. “Is there anything I can do?” Martin hesitated, so he carried on. “I don’t have anything on for the rest of the day. I’m at your disposal, if you want.”

 

A small part of Martin’s brain was confused by the solicitude in Douglas’ voice. _Why does he care so much_?

 

However, the flicker of wonderment was swamped by the adrenaline flooding the rest of him, agitation at the message threatening to break through his controlled exterior. He gave up fumbling through his locker as a bad job, stepping back and scrubbing his hands through his curly hair instead. “You? At my disposal? Really?”

 

“Really.” Douglas sounded firm.

 

“Well…” Martin felt guilty, knew he kept asking too much. But he was too selfish to give up on his major source of comfort. Didn’t want to stop hogging the one person who seemed to be capable of making him feel at least partially tranquil.

 

“Well… would you mind coming down to the police station with me?” He paused, rushed on. “It’s fine if not. I can cope. It’s just that I – I mean – I’d really like to have a friend. With me. If you’re free.”

 

“Of _course_ I’ll come.” Douglas seemed almost relieved, for some reason. “I told you I’d have come the first time you went, didn’t I?”

 

Martin was confused. “I know, I just – I just don’t understand why you’re being so –“ He trailed off, not meaning to sound insulting.

 

Douglas turned away and didn’t answer. Sudden tension was radiating through the stiff line of his back and Martin was afraid that he’d horribly offended him.

 

“Sorry –“ he spluttered, abortively.

 

“No need.” Douglas walked to the door. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.” He wouldn’t meet Martin’s eyes, looking… guilty? Afraid?

 

 _What’s going on_? Martin couldn’t understand. But then, he had more pressing things to consider. The police… He quivered again, lightly, before shutting his locker and following Douglas into the car park.

 

* * *

Martin took a deep breath as he pushed open the police station’s heavy glass door. Douglas was a reassuringly solid presence beside him, their arms brushing as they walked up to the desk to be greeted by a harried-looking WPC.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

“I was asked to come in to see Sergeant… Sergeant…” His mind had gone blank in the stress of the moment.

 

“Sergeant Bell,” Douglas supplied, quickly.

 

“Thanks.” Martin shot him a grateful look. “My name’s Captain Martin Crieff?”

 

“Of course. Take a seat, please.” She indicated a row of tatty plastic chairs, and they went to sit down while she made a call – presumably summoning her colleague.

 

Douglas cleared his throat. “Sorry if I was a bit quiet on the drive over.” He didn’t offer a reason why.

 

“No problem.” It hadn’t been. After weeks living with Douglas, Martin felt entirely comfortable in his presence – even if it was a silent presence. His own mind had been taken up with wondering what he could be about to hear, and if he’d thought about it, would have simply assumed that Douglas was pondering along similar lines.

 

Douglas looked a little uncomfortable. “It’s just that – lately, I –“

 

“Martin Crieff?”

 

Douglas’ explanation was cut off by the friendly voice of the detective who’d just stepped into the foyer.

 

“Yes?” Martin stood up.

 

“Do you want me to come in too?” Douglas stood as well.

 

“Please.” Martin took another deep breath, squaring his shoulders. The two of them followed the tall detective down a corridor and into a small, grey interview room, where one of the policemen who’d previously interviewed Martin was already sitting, flipping through a file of papers. He looked up as they walked in and Martin experienced a moment’s disappointment that it was the younger of his two original interviewers, rather than the one who had reminded him so strongly of Douglas. _Still_ , he thought, _at least today I’ve got the real thing with me instead_. A little glow of warmth throbbed within him at the thought, despite the nervousness coiling in his guts as they all sat down.

 

“So,” Martin’s previous contact looked up, giving a welcoming nod, “thank you for coming back in, Martin.”

 

“No problem,” Martin said, trying his best to sound confident – manly. Not like a frightened little boy. “Err – this is my friend Douglas. Is it alright if he sits in?” He felt a little silly for needing support, but it didn’t seem to faze the two coppers.

 

“Of course – that’s fine.” The young detective looked back at his file. “You might not remember – I’m DC Hillier and this is Sergeant Bell.” The Sergeant smiled at them both as the DC ran his finger down a page of writing – Martin’s statement. He remembered signing it – though the words had blurred before his eyes and the whole thing had felt totally unreal, almost an out-of-body experience.

 

“Is this the Douglas who made you aware of the video’s existence? Douglas Richardson?” Hillier’s voice broke into Martin’s recollections.

 

“Oh – yes.” Martin noticed that Douglas had gone very tense beside him, suddenly, but he said nothing. He shot his FO a worried glance – _are you OK?_ – but Douglas just shook his head, dismissively, as if to say _it’s nothing_.

 

Martin was concerned – perhaps he shouldn’t have asked him to do this – he knew by now just how much Douglas _hated_ to be reminded of that video… but before he could say anything, offer to Douglas that he could leave, Sergeant Bell was continuing and Martin refocused his attention.

 

“We’re sorry it’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve been in touch, but please don’t think that our silence means that you’ve been forgotten. We’ve been liaising with our colleagues in Latvia and conducting preliminary investigations.”

 

Hillier picked up the thread. “We’re pleased to report that good progress has already been made.”

 

“P-progress?” _Damn_. Martin’s voice was wavering. He tried to master his apprehension, screwing his hands tight into fists on the table. Douglas twitched next to him.

 

“Yes. As it happens, the Latvian police had already begun an investigation of their own when we contacted them.”

 

“How’s that?” Douglas spoke for the first time.

 

“Well – as you’re both aware, the film of the attack was posted online for a good three weeks before your contact managed to get it removed from the original site.” Martin nodded, feeling sickened again. “It seems that that type of video was posted reasonably frequently on that particular webpage, but…. well, did you understand the Russian that was spoken in the introduction?”

 

Both Martin and Douglas shook their heads. Martin felt his insides shrivel unpleasantly. He’d had to hand over the video when he made his original report, but he’d been trying not to think that these particular policemen might have actually seen it – it was one thing Douglas knowing exactly how they’d abused him and how he’d… responded, but these two strangers… he wasn’t sure which was worse.

 

“We had it translated via our LanguageLine. It turned out to be a little spiel about how Martin’s participation was entirely voluntary, in exchange for drugs."

 

“That’s not true. It’s _LIES_.” Douglas’ voice was incensed. “You can’t possibly believe them.”

 

Bell held up his hands, placatingly. “Stay calm, Mr Richardson. We believe Martin’s version of events. The hospital evidence of his wounds corroborates his story.”

 

Douglas leaned back again, mollified, and Martin again experienced the little gush of warmth inside that sparked every time his co-pilot betrayed just how much Martin seemed to matter to him. Martin didn’t understand it – but it didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate it.

 

Hillier continued. “Where that initial piece of footage attracted the Latvian force’s interest was in its reference to the drug trade. It appears that the police there have been aware for some time that there’s a significant supplier of ketamine gaining access to the Rigan market somehow, and they’ve been investigating. Three viewers of the video were concerned enough by its content to report it to the police in their various countries, and the men’s accents narrowed it down to Latvia.”

 

“Just three?” Douglas said, bleakly. For a moment, Martin was taken aback. _What do you mean_? Then, he understood. Douglas knew how many people had seen the original.

 

“How many, Douglas?” He turned to him. Knew he would understand. He’d never asked before.

 

Douglas met his eyes, indecision in his expression. He hesitated, apparently unsure whether to disclose what he knew. Eventually, reluctantly, he spoke. “By the time Herc’s brother got it taken down? 160… thousand.”

 

Martin couldn’t process the figure. It was too large. Too amorphous. 160,000 views. That many people who’d watched. Who’d witnessed his total debasement, near destruction. For the first time in weeks, he wished he were dead – albeit only for a moment.

 

 _No. I can’t do that to… Douglas. Mum. Arthur. Even Carolyn._ He had to fight. Even if right now he just wanted to be sick, to vanish.

 

“I can’t believe that out of all those… _people_ …” Douglas’ voice was furious, bitter – “only three reported it. THREE.”

 

Bell seemed unperturbed. “You have to understand, Mr Richardson – the three perpetrators made a point of saying what was taking place was voluntary. And there wasn’t anything in the video that directly contradicted that.”

 

“How about when they stuck that _syringe_ in his bicep?” Douglas appeared to be physically shaking with rage. Martin put a hand out, rested it on his arm. Douglas looked at him with eyes that were full of anger, hurt, but Martin needed him to stay calm.

 

Pleadingly, he said, “But if they’d _said_ I was doing it for drugs, Douglas – that’s exactly what the… _audience_ … would have expected to see.”

 

Douglas shook his head, but not in disagreement. Just in disgust.

 

The DC added, “And you have to understand that that kind of graphic content was by no means atypical for that site. Its purpose is to display bondage-style material – as far as our experts can judge, the majority of the movies on there appear entirely consensual. Viewers would tend to believe what they heard, we think; and also, you have to allow for the shame that’s associated with watching porn.” Martin felt Douglas flinch beneath his hand, to his surprise. He looked sideways at the first officer. Douglas had gone white – he looked awful.

 

Bell chipped in, backing up his colleague. “You just have to look at the instances of successful blackmail that sometimes take place victimizing individuals who’ve been watching pornography – people are too ashamed to report this kind of thing to the police. It doesn’t mean that it was only three people who were disturbed by it – just that they were the only ones proactive enough to say something.”

 

Slowly, Douglas nodded. He’d stopped shaking, but Martin didn’t move his hand, finding reassurance himself in feeling the warmth of Douglas’ skin through his sleeve, the muscles of his forearm lightly flexing beneath Martin’s fingers.

 

“Anyway – the important thing is that the Latvian police were already aware of the footage and had begun investigations,” Bell went on. “They were delighted when we got in touch – they had found other material that had been posted by this gang, which appeared similarly drug-fuelled, but had no leads on where the encounters had taken place.”

 

“Other material?” Martin whispered. “Other victims?” He gripped Douglas’ arm without realizing it.

 

Hillier’s mouth was set in a grim line. “It’s hard to tell. Without them coming forward, we can’t prove absolutely that the sex wasn’t consensual… but, based on your experience, it seems likely that there was an element of coercion or at the very least, dubious consent involved.”

 

“How many?” Douglas asked, sounding uncertain, as if he wasn’t convinced that he actually wanted to know in reality.

 

“No.” Martin raised his other hand. “Please – don’t tell me. I can’t take it.”

 

“Of course.” Douglas retracted his question instantly, chafing Martin’s hand comfortingly with his own where it was clutching his arm.

 

Bell’s eyes flicked down to where their hands were joined before he continued. “The information you gave us was invaluable, Martin. Suddenly we could narrow everything down to a location. And a location that would be extremely practical for the trade in ket.”

 

“Is that what they gave me?” Martin needed to know.

 

“Based on the effects, we wouldn’t be surprised. How much do you know about it, as a drug?”

 

“I had it, once.” Douglas spoke up.

 

“You?” Martin was scandalized.

 

Douglas barked a short laugh. “Don’t look like that. All legal and above board. When I had a liver abscess – they gave it to me in hospital.”

 

“How did it make you feel?” Martin was suddenly keyed up. _I have to know what they did_.

 

Douglas pondered. “Floaty. Detached from my body. Like I couldn’t move, but I didn't care. But it’s hard to remember – it made me forget – _oh_.” Douglas’ eyes went wide. “That’s why you had amnesia.”

 

Hillier nodded. “That’s one of the most powerful side effects of the drug – it causes often total short-term memory loss. Quite the advantage for a rapist – particularly if they were combining it with another drug – maybe roofies? - And alcohol into the bargain.”

 

“That’s so dangerous,” Douglas hissed. He looked green at the gills. “I had a team of anaesthetists supervising me. You could have stopped breathing. You could have d-“ He stopped himself.

 

Silence hung over the table for a moment. Douglas was gripping Martin’s hand very tightly. Martin didn’t know what to say.

 

Bell coughed, lightly. “You’re right, Douglas. It's a very dangerous game that these men are playing. That’s why we are so keen to stop them.”

 

“You have to. You have to find them.” Douglas’ voice was more urgent than Martin had ever heard it.

 

“Well,” there was a note of – almost – triumph in Hillier’s tone. “We think we have.”

 

Martin sat bolt upright, his heart beating rapidly. “You have?”

 

Bell nodded. “Would you be prepared to look at some photos for us? See if you can pick any of them out?”

 

Martin felt frozen to the spot. Even despite the EMDR, his memories were still hazy, blurry. “What if I don’t recognize anyone?”

 

Hillier was reassuring. “That’s OK. We can still try and identify them through other means. We’re aware that your memory has suffered impairment due to your experience.”

 

Martin felt a little better, a touch less pressurized. “Douglas should look too. He thinks he met Leo – the one who found me on the plane.”

 

“Is that right?”

 

Douglas nodded. “I think so. But it was only a brief meeting.”

 

“That’s not a problem.” Bell was brisk. “In that case, let’s do this properly. We want this to be admissible in court.”

 

The DC stood up. “Douglas, you come with me. You need to leave the room.”

 

Douglas hesitated. “And leave Martin?” Martin knew that he had gone very pale, his eyes fixed on the table, his hand shaky beneath Douglas’.

 

Hillier nodded. “We can’t let you see which of the photos he chooses before you look at them.”

 

Douglas looked at Martin. “Is that OK with you? I won’t leave unless you’ll be alright.”

 

Martin took a wavery breath. “Yes. I can do this.” He was sure that he sounded a little as if he was trying to convince himself, but he drew his hand away, sat up a bit straighter. “You go, Douglas. But come back – after. Please.”

 

Douglas nodded. “OK.” He left with Hillier, casting a glance back at Martin as he went. Martin tried to ignore the concern for Douglas twisting inside him, striving to focus on the memories he could dredge up of the men’s faces instead. No matter how hard he tried, they still seemed out-of-focus, as if Vaseline had been smeared over the lens of his recollections.

 

“Do you need to take a minute?” The sergeant was looking at Martin a little worriedly. Martin realized how rapidly he was breathing and tried to calm himself, using the technique Anna had been working on with him – in through the nose, out through the mouth….

 

“No,” he said, after one or two breaths. “Can we just get it over with?”

 

Bell nodded understandingly. “Course. I’ve got the selection of photos here for you.” He pulled a smaller file out from inside the larger one. “Look through these and see if there are any faces you recognize.”

 

“And Douglas?”

 

“Hillier’s doing the same with him now.”

 

Martin indicated understanding, took the folder. He took another slow, calming inhalation before opening it. A brunette man was staring up at him, a blue tattoo marring the right hand side of his forehead. He could have sighed with relief. “Not him.” He turned to the next one, a blonde, thin man with a pointed chin. “Nope.”

 

“Just keep looking. See if you come across anything.” Bell sat back, patiently. Martin steeled himself. Kept turning the photos over, discarding about eight more before the next made him take a juddering gasp of air.

 

Leo’s face grinned up at him, arrogance radiating from his every pore even through the separation of a photograph.

 

“Him.” Martin stabbed the portrait with a finger, shoving it towards the policeman, away from him. Bile rushed up his throat and he gagged. “Sorry.”

 

“You’re doing fine.” Bell quickly turned the photo away so it was no longer staring at him. “Need a break?”

 

Martin shook his head, grimly. _Where are you, you bastards?_ He kept hunting, fixed on his task.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Martin had found them. He couldn’t remember their names, but he was sure he’d done it; as soon as he’d seen the pudgy face of the paunchy man, he’d actually retched, and the same feeling of debilitating nausea and terror had raced through him at the sight of a well-built, sturdy guy, whose broad shoulders were evident even in the simple headshot that Martin had to look at. He trusted his gut; he wouldn’t react so strongly to someone who was innocent, he was sure. He wondered how Douglas was getting on.

 

“Where is he?” he finally asked the sergeant, who had been making some notes.

 

“I expect that Hillier’s taking his statement at the same time. We’d been going to get him in shortly anyway – it’s good that he’s here, we can kill two birds with one stone.”

 

Martin absorbed this. _I want him back. Now._ He knew it was selfish. But he needed Douglas – needed him to make him feel calm, to stop him feeling so trembly and pathetic. When Douglas was there, he always felt… not serene, exactly. But far less as if he were about to smash into a million fragments.

 

After what seemed like an hour, Hillier returned with the first officer, announcing their presence with a light rap on the internal window behind the closed blinds.

 

“Come in.” Bell hopped up and opened the door, letting them back into the tiny room.

 

“Douglas.” Martin hadn’t meant to inject so much relief into his voice – _God, I sound_ longing, _even_ – but Douglas didn’t seem to mind. He came and sat next to Martin, almost leaning into him. His haggard face indicated that he’d found the process similarly traumatic.

 

Bell had nodded affirmingly at Hillier in answer to an unspoken question as the DC entered. He turned back to them. “Well, you’ve both picked out the same man as being the major player, which is excellent. And of course, we don’t think Douglas met the other two, but Martin – you’ve chosen who we’d expect. Well done to both of you – I’m sure that wasn’t easy.”

 

Douglas and Martin sighed in relief simultaneously, then caught each others’ eyes – and burst into a slightly hysterical short fit of chuckling at having their expressions so exactly mirrored in each others' faces. Martin’s heart flipped oddly. _Douglas_. He was distracted from the intense release of feeling when Hillier spoke again.

 

“I think that’s all we need from you for today. We’ll likely be asking your colleagues at MJN to come in and give statements in the next few days. We’ll pass all this on to our friends in the Rigan force.”

 

“And the men?” Douglas was deadly serious again after his brief outburst of hysterics.

 

“It’s up to the Latvians. But I’d say you’ve given them enough to move on arrests very, very soon.” Martin felt a flood of relief tempering his apprehension.

 

Bell added, “You’ve both done brilliantly. Thank you for being so brave.”

 

Douglas shrugged, uncomfortably. Martin ducked his head. It felt wrong to be complimented.

 

All of them stood up, shook hands, Martin wincing slightly at the press of flesh. It still scared him to be touched by strangers, even for something as innocuous as a handshake. Bell walked them to the foyer, giving them each his card. “If you remember anything else – get in touch.”

 

“Will do,” Martin nodded.

 

“Thanks,” added Douglas. Bell smiled and left them. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift home.”

 

Martin agreed. After the stress of the past two hours, he suddenly felt a great wave of tiredness wash over him. He followed Douglas out to his car like a zombie, slumping sleepily into the passenger seat.

 

“You OK after that?” asked Douglas.

 

Martin considered, wearily. “Think so. I felt really sick… when I saw their faces. But I managed not to actually throw up.” He abruptly felt a little guilty, for the first time in ages recollecting how he’d found Douglas’ vomit on the floor all those weeks ago. “Not that there would’ve been anything wrong with it if I had,” he added, hastily, glancing sideways to see whether the first officer had noticed. “Are... are you alright?”

 

“Mmm.” Douglas was very focused on the road, for no apparent reason.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Why?” Douglas sounded surprised.

 

“Well… I know you don’t like to be reminded. Of the video.” Martin felt deeply guilty.

 

Douglas’ hands clutched the steering wheel more tightly. “Martin…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“There’s a reason why – I mean… um…” Douglas seemed uncharacteristically unsure of himself, a realization that snapped Martin back towards full consciousness despite his exhaustion.

 

“What?” _Why does Douglas look so afraid_?

 

“When I saw the video… I… um…”

 

Martin listened, silently. What was Douglas trying to say?

 

Douglas was still hesitating. He made the turn into Martin’s road. “I… I…”

 

Martin tried to make light of it. “Has your needle got stuck?”

 

Douglas flashed him a sidelong look. “No.” He stopped stuttering as they pulled up outside the scruffy house. “Never mind.”

 

“What?” Martin pressed, suddenly nervous. “You look as if you’re about to tell me you killed someone.”

 

Douglas shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

Martin’s nerves made him crotchety. “Honestly, what? You can’t leave it there.”

 

But the first officer just stared him down. “I said – it doesn’t matter.” He changed the subject hastily, leaving Martin totally confused. “Will you be OK tonight?”

 

“What? I mean – yeah, I will. Nightmares are improving – usually.”

 

“Good.” Dismissiveness was evident in Douglas’ tone.

 

“Thanks for the ride. For coming with me, even though… you know.” Martin was truly grateful, enough to override his puzzlement and irritation.

 

“Anytime.” Martin turned to open the passenger door, was halted as Douglas grabbed his wrist, urgently. “I do mean it. Anytime.” Earnestness throbbed in his voice, an odd intensity pulsing beneath the words.

 

“Thanks...?” Martin felt all at sea.

 

Douglas held the contact a little longer before seeming to realise what he was doing. He let Martin go, watching him up the path, before re-starting the engine. Martin turned to wave him off, but caught Douglas making an odd movement, seeming to be propping himself back upright. _Was he… had he been banging his head on the steering wheel_?

 

Surely not. Martin couldn’t fathom it.

 

He wearily climbed the stairs, toed off his shoes, and lay down on his futon. He should really make dinner – but maybe he’d just close his eyes for five minutes first…

 

* * *

 

Martin awoke three hours later, utterly disorientated. His room was mostly in darkness, lit only by the partial orange glow of the sodium streetlight outside, odd shadows spilling eerily across the walls. He’d been dreaming, he knew, but not a nightmare, not this time…

 

He couldn’t remember. To begin with he couldn’t even identify the odd feeling wriggling through his stomach – not until he shifted on to his back, straightening his legs.

 

 _Oh_. _OH_.

 

A rush of panic flew through him. He was… aroused. For the first time since… since they…

 

He had no idea what he’d been dreaming of. He thought it was something pleasant – it hadn’t been the usual horror show of disempowerment, abuse, pain – that wouldn’t have left him in this state, hard and wanting, he was certain.

 

Hesitantly, he moved his hand down, brushed his groin. Physically jolted at the fiercely sensitive sensation the lightest touch provoked. He was panting, not sure what to do – whether to panic or run away, to burst into tears or to try for normality, to refuse to let them ruin this most private part of anyone’s life – of his life.

 

Two months. Two months, and he hadn’t… hadn’t felt any desire to. That wasn’t usual, for him; shouldn’t he be trying to go back to normal? But the thought of it filled him with fear. _What if… what if it’s like what_ they _did_? _What if they’ve taken this too_?

 

 _They can’t,_ he told himself firmly. _I won’t let them_. He moved his hand back, settled it firmly over his straining cock, which had wilted just slightly at the turmoil of emotions he was experiencing. At the steady, stilled touch, a slight drip of pleasure trickled through him, though not enough to completely assuage his fears.

 

 _Think of something calming_. What calmed him?

 

The answer came almost without searching for it. _Douglas_. He moved his hand, a single stroke, drawing a tiny whimper from his throat.

 

 _It’s wrong. You can’t think of Douglas that way_.

 

 _I don’t care._ Martin’s brain flashed through images of his co-pilot – the strong forearms – how they’d felt under his hand – the deep, deep brown eyes with such surprising kindness showing through – the vision in Cannes of the trail of salt-and-pepper hair leading down Douglas’ broad, strong chest, down his stomach, down towards…

 

Martin’s hand sped up as he gave in to temptation. It was so easy to imagine himself back in Douglas’ firm, protecting embrace; those _men_ had no place there, no power to threaten him when he was being held so securely, with Douglas’ hands caressing his shoulders, his back… _my cock…_

 

Maybe Douglas would kiss him – let their tongues twist softly, heatedly. He’d stroke him, would bite gently at his nipples, just to hear him gasp, he'd say something clever and cocky in that deep, rich voice of his. Martin could almost hear it, pressed against his ear. Perhaps he’d sigh Martin’s name – would want him to say his…

 

“ _Douglas_.” Martin spoke aloud into the silence of the darkened room, his hand twisting down, inside his boxers, craving the skin-on-skin contact that he’d shunned for months. “ _Douglas… oh, oh._ ”

 

He sped his hand again, greedy for pleasure, denied for so long. His fantasy was so real to him that he could almost feel Douglas’ breath on his neck, smell the tangy cologne that he favoured. He rubbed his thumb lightly over his slit, causing his hips to stutter upwards – another coil of panic threatened, briefly, at the feeling, but he pressed defiantly on. Douglas was there. Douglas would keep him safe. Would get him off.

 

His hand was a blur, jerking dryly, tugging at his skin, providing friction that burned pleasantly just where he wanted it. Douglas would lick his neck – would suck kisses into his collarbone – would tell him that he wanted him, that he loved him –

 

“ _Augh – Dou… - Douglas… nngh._ ” Pleasure exploded within him, white lights dancing behind his eyes as he shot, warm wetness filling his briefs as the intense throbs of his climax rocked him to his core.

 

He finished on a long, drawn out hiss of exhaled breath, feeling loose, disconnected, as he hadn’t for so long. Contentment radiated through him, warming his limbs despite the cooling sensation of fluid above his groin.

 

Contentment began to give way as he came down from the high, though.

 

 _You shouldn’t_. An unpleasant voice niggled at his brain. _He likes WOMEN. You’re setting yourself up for a fall._

 

“I _know_ ,” he said aloud, irritably, into the silent room. His heartbeat was gradually slowing. He should get up… clean up.

 

Instead, he carried on lying there, as if pinned by the sadness and unease coiling inside him. _Douglas must never know_. _Never._ He swiped ineffectually at the mess with a tissue before kicking off his clothes, uncharacteristically allowing them to crumple on the floor.

 

Martin’s final thought before he drifted back off to sleep was a repeating mantra: _I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m screwed_ , whispering sinuously through his brain.


	18. Test Pilot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the verdict looming, Martin needs all the support he can get - but Douglas needs a good deal of assistance too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone with better knowledge of the Latvian legal system (now there's a sentence I never thought I'd type) do shout if I've got anything wrong.

“Martin!”

 

Martin heard Carolyn calling after him as he walked hastily out of the courtroom, but didn’t turn around. He gave a sigh of relief as he pushed open the main doors, leaving the dim interior of the stark government building for the weak sunshine of a Latvian December afternoon.

 

“Martin!” Arthur was shouting after him now. At last, he stopped, waiting for them to catch up, breathing a little heavily, but managing to control himself.

 

“Gosh, you left awfully fast, Skip. Are you OK?” Arthur jogged up to him, nearly slipping over on the icy pavement but just about righting himself.

 

“I’m fine.” Martin tried to give a reassuring smile as Carolyn and Douglas reached them. “Just wanted to get where it was a bit lighter.”

 

Douglas looked far too understanding for Martin’s liking. “Of course.”

 

Martin spoke hastily, wanting to forestall any words of comfort before they could be uttered. “I just wasn’t expecting – I mean, the solicitors all said that it would be tomorrow that the judge and the assessors decided to go and consider their verdict, not today. It was just a bit of a surprise.”

 

“Naturally.” Carolyn sniffed. “Still, I’m amazed that the defence found as much to say as they did in their summing up. I knew they’d be scraping round for arguments.” For someone who’d been certain, though, there was a certain tentative relief in her tone.

 

“When do the jury come in?” Arthur still sounded confused.

 

“Dear heart.” Exasperation rang in Carolyn’s voice. “How many times do we have to explain this to you? There are no juries in Latvia. It’s just a judge and two legal colleagues. They decide the verdict between them.”

 

“And that’s what they’re about to do this afternoon, now the lawyers have finished speaking?” Arthur seemed bewildered.

 

“Yes. But they could take several days, so in the meantime we’re free to leave.” Carolyn swiftly checked her phone for messages. Herc had got his type-rating at last; he was operating GERTI solo on a cargo flight domestically for them back in the UK, Martin knew. He shivered lightly in the chill of the winter air, nerves again sweeping over him at the thought of the deliberations beginning back in the judge’s office.

 

Of course Douglas noticed his tense body language immediately. “What do you want to do now?” he asked, still in the same gentle voice. Martin would have bristled at it from anyone else – but from Douglas, it just felt comforting, rather than damaging to his pride.

 

He sighed. “Well, if the solicitors say we won’t be needed for the rest of the day… I guess… I think maybe I’ll just go back to the hotel for a bit.” He paused, looked round at them awkwardly. “You can do whatever you like – I’ll be fine.”

 

“Sure?” Carolyn was eyeing him shrewdly.

 

“Yeah, I’m OK. Especially now I’m out of there.” Martin jerked his thumb back towards the courthouse behind them. Every single day of the trial, leaving hastily through the austere front entrance had felt ridiculously freeing. Simply knowing he wasn’t in the same building as… _them_ … was consistently a huge relief. The first day, when the three accused had been led in, to sit in the benches to his left, Martin had had to choke back gasps of panic, had shaken from head to toe. He’d known he was being ridiculous – knew that they were surrounded by guards, that they couldn’t possibly get at him – but it didn’t stop the sheer terror that arose from being so unpleasantly proximate to them. Only the knowledge that he didn’t want to give them the _satisfaction_ of witnessing him humiliate himself with his panic had enabled him to master himself, that day.

 

The following days, weeks, the initial agitation had worn off, a little – but he still detested the necessity of being in the same room. He never looked at them – even when he was giving evidence. He was too afraid of what he might see, of how he might react. When they’d taken the stand, one by one (protesting their shocked innocence, insisting that he’d lied, that he’d begged for it) he’d been sick twice just from the sound of their callous, wheedling voices – somewhat to his solicitor’s satisfaction, it being a vivid demonstration to the court of his total revulsion. He shuddered, again, memories pressing in on him, and felt Arthur gently pat his arm, drawing him back to the present.

 

“We’ll come back to the hotel with you, Skip.” Arthur’s voice was surprisingly gentle for such an ebullient being.

 

“No!” Martin shook his head, forced a smile. “It’s fine, really. I know you want your chance to see the sights. You should go.”

 

Arthur looked tempted, his desire to explore Riga clearly warring with the need to support his Skip. Douglas stepped in. “It’s fine, Arthur – Carolyn. I’ll go back to the hotel with Martin. I’ve no wish to do anything except settle down with a book.”

 

Martin threw him a grateful glance. He really didn’t feel like being with the Knapp-Shappeys just now – but that was mean of him, they’d flown in specially two days ago. He was so grateful – seeing his MJN family in the public gallery, ranged on his side, meant more than he could possibly express – but the shock that the verdict was now being considered, his rapists’ fate decided, had left him feeling limp and peculiar. He definitely didn’t feel up to parrying Arthur’s questions or catching Carolyn’s concerned stares for the rest of the afternoon.

 

“Can we go to the big market, Mum? It’s in those four old tram sheds, you saw as we drove in…” Arthur was tugging at Carolyn’s arm, eagerness making him positively vibrate with excitement.

 

“Yes, yes, Arthur, alright.” Carolyn shook her head, exasperatedly. She turned to Douglas and Martin. “You know how to get back to the hotel?”

 

“Of course,” Martin replied, trying to make his words light. “I’ve been here for a month, after all.”

 

“I shall rely on my captain to navigate, then.” Douglas gave Carolyn one of his trademark smirks, although it seemed to Martin as though his heart wasn’t really in it.

 

They bade au revoir to the cabin crew half of the party, and then Martin turned to lead Douglas back the short distance to the cheap hotel they were all staying in. Although he’d wanted to go back there this afternoon, in truth Martin was coming to detest the place; it was decorated in various shades of drab taupe, was cold and draughty, and the staff’s accents still made him shiver unfairly. He had begun to doubt whether he would ever lose the instinctive dread that twisted his guts at the sound of a Russian voice. It was deeply prejudiced of him – and he tried not to let his fear ever show in his face or voice – but he just couldn’t escape the memories that the sounds evoked. _God, I feel so guilty, so r_ _acist_.

 

“What are you thinking?” Douglas’ question jerked him out of his ashamed thoughts.

 

Martin pondered how to answer. “Just… weighing everything up, I suppose. I can’t believe they’re actually deliberating now.”

 

Douglas nodded. “I know what you mean. It must feel even stranger to you – you’ve been here constantly for weeks. It feels odd enough just having dipped in and out of proceedings.” Douglas had had to reluctantly accept that keeping MJN going as a functioning concern had meant that he simply couldn’t be with Martin for the whole trial – some flights needed both him and Herc as pilots in order to operate. Martin had reassured him over and over that it was fine, that he quite understood – MJN couldn’t be allowed to go under just so that he could have his hand held in Latvia – but Douglas had never seemed to be able to shake the guilt of it. He’d rung Martin every single day to check on him – a gesture of kindness that the captain still couldn’t quite believe – every phone call involving Douglas apologizing at some point for an absence he couldn’t possibly help. Martin was very confused by it all.

 

In fact – Martin reflected – Douglas’ guilt complex seemed to go back even further than the period of the trial. The past six months since the attack – Douglas had been so different. Yes, they still played word games in the flight deck, now Martin was back to regular duty; Douglas still teased him, to some extent, especially when Arthur was around to hear it too; he was as alternately friendly and exasperating as he always had been – sometimes desperately, exuberantly so – but something had changed… there was an odd intensity to him now, at times. _Douglas is hiding something._

 

Martin couldn’t explain it. He kept telling himself that he was imagining it – after all, after everything they’d been through, why would Douglas be holding something back? But still the feeling of unease nagged unpleasantly away at him, a constant source of discomfort, worry. _I want things to be how they were. I want MY – I mean, the OLD Douglas back._

 

“Here we are.” They’d reached the hotel, both of them kicking the slushy snow from their shoes as they crossed the threshold, the warm, close air of the hotel hitting them. Stale cooking smells made Martin wrinkle his nose. “I cannot wait to finally get out of this place.”

 

Douglas chuckled sympathetically. “I bet. It’s not very… inspiring, is it?”

 

The two of them trudged up the stairs. Douglas was sharing Martin’s twin room this time – for his four or five flying visits to the trial before, he’d booked his own single, but there seemed to be some sort of conference on this week; that, combined with a flood of wintery tourists for Riga’s Christmas market, had meant that there were no other rooms available.

 

Martin unlocked the door, taking in the slightly squalid room with a sigh. “Why does it all have to be so… brown?” he grumbled, making Douglas snicker again. That felt a little better – grousing over hotel rooms was something that he and Douglas were past masters at, given the standard of accommodation that Carolyn usually _treated_ them to at work. He flopped down on his bed and toed off his shoes, loosening his uncomfortable tie as he did so.

 

Douglas dug around in his suitcase to find the book he’d been reading – a John Le Carré novel, by the looks of it. He waved it at Martin vaguely. “You OK if I read for a bit?”

 

“Yep.” Martin stretched. “I might try for a nap – I haven’t been getting much sleep lately.”

 

Douglas instantly looked worried. “I thought things had been better? You weren’t seeming anywhere near as exhausted on the flight deck. Well, a month ago, anyway.”

 

Martin sighed. “Yes, a month ago. Things were improving. It’s just the last few weeks…”

 

“Probably not surprising.” Douglas sounded sad. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

 

Martin’s insides gave the funny little quiver he had grown to associate with evidence of Douglas’ concern for him. It felt so peculiar, still, to think that his smooth, authoritative, poised first officer cared about his wellbeing. He shook his head. “It’s fine. Anna said it was likely to happen.” He yawned. “I’ll just grab 40 winks.”

 

“Sure. I’ll be here.” Douglas arranged his pillows comfortably and leant back on his bed, burying his nose in the well-thumbed paperback. Martin gazed over at him surreptitiously for a few seconds, taking in the beautiful familiarity of it – Douglas’ aquiline profile, glasses balanced lightly at the end of his nose, broad shoulders slightly hunched over… He felt safe in a way he hadn’t for the whole month in Riga, this city that, despite its charm, to him would always represent something so hideous. Douglas was nearby, again; things would be all right…

 

Martin’s eyes fluttered shut. He drifted off to sleep, listening to the sound of Douglas’ soft, steady breathing across the room as he read.

 

* * *

_Black. Can’t see. Can’t move my hands – get off my legs, don’t TOUCH me… splitting me apart, oh God, the pain, red-hot, tearing me in two – I want to disappear, I want to die, I’m going to be sick –_

 

“Martin! Martin!” The voice was frantic – forceful – but a different kind of force to that filling his mind, making his pulse bound and his breath catch in gasps. “Martin! Wake up, please, please…”

 

The voice was nearly sobbing. _No, please_ … Martin didn’t want to make that voice cry…

 

He shuddered back into consciousness with a desperate intake of air, flinging himself half upright in bed as he awoke.

 

 _Crunch_. Blinding pain shot through his forehead as he collided with something extremely solid just above him. “Argh!” Both he and Douglas cried out simultaneously as their heads connected, and a sudden gush of hot, wet drips coated Martin’s outstretched hand.

 

“ _Fuck_.” Douglas swore and scrambled backwards, away from Martin, who was still half-asleep and bewildered.

 

“Are you OK? What have I done?” Martin’s voice was panicky.

 

“’M fine, ‘m fine…” Douglas replied, thickly. He sniffed, coughed. “You just got my nose a bit, that’s all.”

 

Martin groped round for the light, flicking it on – the December evening had brought dusk very early and the room had become almost pitch black. Weak light from the low voltage bulb illuminated the small space. Douglas had shifted right to the other end of Martin’s bed, tipping his head backwards, pinching the bridge of his nose. Bright red streaks lividly coloured his mouth and chin, and Martin saw Douglas’ blood crimsoning his own hand where the initial spurt had caught him by surprise. Guilt plummeted through him like a waterfall, tumbling with crashing force.

 

“Christ. I’m so sorry – I’m so sorry –“ He felt frantically round for a tissue, finally finding a handkerchief in his pocket. He sprang out from under the covers, residual shakiness from his nightmare making his legs tremble under him as he threw himself down next to Douglas. “Don’t tip your head back, it’ll all go down your throat. Tip forwards, look.” He gently placed a hand at the back of the FO’s hair, softly taking the weight of his head and maneuvering it down in front of him, so the blood ran more freely, but into the cloth rather than straight down Douglas’ gullet.

 

“It’s not what they taught me at school.” Douglas’ voice was muffled by the wodge of hanky shoved against his face.

 

“Listen to your captain.” Martin tried to tease, but it came out weak and shaking, sounding pathetic. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“No need to apologise.” Douglas sniffed and choked slightly. “Not your fault.”

 

Martin gave a derisive, humourless laugh. “Right.”

 

“I mean it. You can’t help having nightmares.”

 

Martin sighed. “I’m sorry. They were improving, honestly.” He cringed, embarrassment burning hotly through his chest.

 

“Stop it. Stop apologizing.” Douglas sounded furious, suddenly. “You have _nothing_ to be sorry for.”

 

The ferocity of Douglas’ voice flicked at Martin’s raw emotions like a tawse. Without meaning to, he overflowed into silent tears, shoulders shaking as he leaned away from the older man, praying he wouldn’t notice.

 

“It’s stopping, I think…” Douglas dabbed lightly at his face before chancing a look up, straightening from his hunched position. Martin strained his neck away, concealing his crumpled, tear-streaked face, but he couldn’t prevent the hitching of his breath and the consequent jerking of his back. He heard Douglas take a sharp inhalation. “Martin.” He shook his head, still not looking. “Martin – I’m sorry.”

 

He couldn’t reply, misery pouring out of him at what he’d done to poor Douglas’ face, at the horrid suspense of the verdict, at the thought that those three men would be waiting for him in the courtroom and then again in his nightmares…

 

He felt a tentative hand come up to stroke his back and flinched away on instinct, the memory of the horrible touching of his dream still too fresh to endure the contact.

 

“Captain – sorry, sorry…” Douglas slipped off the bed, came to kneel in front of him on the floor, peering up at his face, desperate worry clear in his eyes. “Please – let me help –“

 

Martin felt his sobs subside slightly. “Have I broken your nose?” His voice was cracked and strange, shame throbbing through every syllable.

 

Douglas felt his face gingerly. “No, no – just given it a bit of a knock – it’s fine. Honest. Please don’t be upset.”

 

Martin sniffed. “Sure?”

 

“Yes.” Douglas softly patted Martin’s knee from his lower position. “You didn’t mean to. I shouldn’t have leaned in so close – it’s just…” He looked agitated again. “You wouldn’t wake, and you sounded so scared…”

 

Another bolt of humiliation shot through Martin. “I feel like such a coward. I’m so sorry.”

 

Douglas’ fingers suddenly pressed deeply into his thighs, causing him to gasp. “You are _not_ a coward. You’re _not._ ” The ferocity in his tone was back, making Martin quake. With a clear concerted effort, Douglas controlled himself. “You have no idea, Martin – no idea how brave you are, compared to me -” Douglas suddenly stopped speaking, flushing pink.

 

“You? What have you got to feel cowardly about?” Martin was confused, yet again.

 

A long, heavy silence hung between them. Douglas wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead staring somewhere around his mid-section, some private agony twisting in his face. Martin was suddenly reminded of that journey back from the police station four months ago, when Douglas had tried to tell him something, but couldn’t.

 

“Douglas?” The first officer looked up, indecision written all over his features. Martin was afraid. “Please, Douglas. What’s going on?” No reply, just that same expression of mingled pain and fear – not emotions Martin had expected to see on the face of the smug, smooth-talking Sky God that Douglas Richardson represented. “I – I don’t know what’s the matter with you. It’s scaring me.”

 

Douglas suddenly turned away, moving through 180 degrees so his back rested against Martin’s bed, his face concealed as a result. Martin couldn’t let him get away that easily, not now he seemed to be on the point of discovering the truth. He slipped off the bed to join him on the floor and reached out a hand, stroked Douglas’ arm, cautiously, feeling a tremor run through the older man. “Please, please let me help. I know things are bound to be different – that you’re bound to not feel the same now as six months ago, before –“ Martin shuddered – “all _this._ ”  He tried to explain better. “I just see you trying to treat me normally, word games, teasing, and I’m almost fooled some of the time. But then – “ He took a deep breath before revealing his deepest fears. “Then I catch your expression when you think I’m not going to look at you, sometimes. And you look – you look like something’s eating you alive, inside.”

 

Douglas had gone totally still, frozen beside him, which convinced Martin that he was on the right track. _I have to help_. He pressed on despite his unease and discomfort. “I can’t stand that anything could be making you feel this awful. And you’ve been so brilliant to me, all this time – taking me in – making me feel better – almost human again – I can never thank you enough, never, never. Please – can I try and help you the same way?”

 

“You can’t help.” Douglas’ voice was harsh in spite of its softness. Had Martin not been pressed into Douglas’ shoulder, very close to him, he’d never have heard it at all.

 

“But – call me crazy, but I think it’s something to do with me.” Martin’s heart gave a cold pulse of fear. “The timing – everything’s gone strange since…” His voice trailed off, shakily. “I just can’t stand to think that anything about me – about what happened – could be making you so miserable. Because I know how unhappy you are. I _know_.”

 

“You do?” Douglas’ voice was barely a whisper. He sounded agonized.

 

Martin nodded hard. “I can see. Remember how you could see, when I was pretending to be OK? Well, now I know how you felt. It’s horrid.”

 

Douglas was silent, but his breath was coming quickly, in panicky pants. Martin smoothed his hand over his arm, trying to calm him.

 

“Please – can’t you tell me? I feel so guilty – I’m so frightened that it’s something I’ve done, that I’ve made you feel this way…” Martin felt his own breath start to hitch in a sob again.

 

Douglas caught his panting, steadied himself, fierceness once again evident in his tone. “ _You_ mustn’t feel guilty. Don’t you _dare_.”

 

“But I don’t have a choice. I feel like I’m causing you terrible pain, sometimes, just by being near you. And it’s not getting any better.” Martin was struggling not to weep with the ache of it, with the need to soothe Douglas, make it all better, the way Douglas made _him_ better. A radical thought leapt into his brain – radical, but he knew it was an offer he was perfectly prepared to make, if it meant restoring Douglas’ happiness. “Would you – would you like me to leave MJN?”

 

“What?” Douglas sounded completely blindsided.

 

“I can leave. If it’s something about me, causing you this misery – I can go, once the trial is done – I won’t make you see me again –“ At the thought of separating himself from Douglas, agony ripped through Martin’s soul. But he knew it was a sacrifice he’d make in a heartbeat. For Douglas.

 

“NO.” Douglas sprang up, with an agility surprising in someone of his age and slightly heavy build. He paced quickly to the window, leaving Martin on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. He seemed to be coming to a decision. He turned, looked down, his face now determinedly blank. “If I’m not hiding it well enough – and it’s causing you to suffer – then I have no choice but to tell you. I’ll not have you thinking that this is your fault – any of it.” He sighed, heavily, nervously. “It’s me. It’s all me, and you – well, you’ll understand when you’ve heard. _I’ll_ leave MJN.”

 

“No –“ Martin reached his hands out on instinct, but Douglas turned away again, shaking his head.

 

“Don’t speak too hastily, you haven’t heard it yet.” He walked to his small single bed, sat down opposite Martin. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. That I’ve ever been guilty of. That’s why it’s eating me alive, no matter what my therapist says to the contrary.”

 

“ _Your_ therapist?” Martin had no idea Douglas had been receiving counselling too.

 

Douglas gave a bitter laugh. “Yep. I didn’t tell you… didn’t want you to feel… how you do, I suppose. Like it was your fault. Because it isn’t, it isn’t.”

 

Martin’s heart sank. “I don’t believe you. I _know_ I’m to blame. I shouldn’t have gone with them – I shouldn’t have been trying to show off to you –“

 

“To me?” It was Douglas’ turn to look confused, but he refused to be diverted, shaking off Martin’s – to him – peculiar statement. “Please, Martin. Let me get it out, if I’m going to say it. And then – then I’ll leave. I can fly home tonight – Boris can sort me a plane, I’m sure.”

 

“OK…” Martin gripped his legs, anxiety pouring off him in waves. He felt terrified. _Don’t go. Don’t leave me._

 

Douglas took a deep breath, closed his eyes. He spoke without looking at Martin, hanging his head. “That night, that Gordon sent me the video… well, I didn’t know what it was. I thought he just wanted to get back at me, by sending me some extreme pornography that I would find disgusting, traumatizing.” He shuddered in another gulp of air, knotting his hands together. “I was an arrogant sod. You know me. I wanted to prove him wrong. _I_ wanted to win.”

 

Douglas opened his eyes, caught Martin’s, but couldn’t hold the gaze. His pupils skittered up, staring above the captain’s head. “You know – you’ve seen the film. I had no idea it was you, I promise – you _have_ to believe that –“ Earnestness was evident in his suddenly loud voice, shaking though it was. “I didn’t know. I told myself it was consensual. That it was just some BDSM porno that all involved were getting paid to do. I – I was _triumphant_ , Martin. I congratulated myself that Gordon had no idea that I was – am – bisexual.”

 

“You?!” Martin couldn’t stop himself interjecting, the total unexpectedness of the information catching him completely off guard. Douglas waved a hand, shoved the interruption aside, kept ploughing on.

 

“Yes. I – I never watch porn, especially gay porn. _Especially_ violent porn. I’d never seen anything like it, please believe me…” His whole frame was starting to shake.

 

Queasiness spiraled inside Martin, a hint of where Douglas might be going beginning to suggest itself to him. _Douglas… no…_

 

“I wanted to show Gordon that his pathetic attempt at revenge wouldn’t sicken me. I was determined to… determined to…” He sounded for a moment as though he couldn’t continue, but his eyes suddenly blazed, fury and anguish radiating from him. “I – The sight of the man, lying there, all _hard_ and helpless…”

 

 _Me_ , Martin thought, his guts churning. _Me_.

 

Douglas stumbled on. “I got aroused. I didn’t like the violence – the fact they didn’t use lube to start with, the – the _force_ –“ He passed a shaking hand over his mouth, his face ashen with the extreme emotion. “But I was so cocky, so sure that I knew what Gordon was up to. I was going to enjoy it, and laugh at him.”

 

Martin didn’t know where to look. His eyes were fixed on Douglas’ face, as if watching a car crash in front of him in slow motion, powerless to prevent it.

 

“I was completely stupid. Fooling myself. I kept saying that I’d enjoy it, but that I wouldn’t get off. That I’d never climax to anything that that _monster_ sent me.” A cough of grim laughter punctuated the sentence, cold and accusatory. “I was a fucking idiot.”

 

Martin felt as if a block of ice had settled in his chest. “You… you…” He couldn’t finish, his mind racing, unable to absorb what he was hearing.

 

“I came. Before they got the drugs out, before they unhooded you, before I saw it was you – and I was disgusted with myself as soon as I had, no matter who it was under that black cloth – but that’s no excuse – I still got off, like a fool, like a fucking _pervert_ -“ Douglas was crying, now, only the second time Martin had ever seen him shed a tear. The salt water slid down his cheeks, mingling gruesomely with the bloodstains left from his nosebleed, spreading them in vivid, vicious swirls. In the unnatural light it looked horribly as if a violent hand had torn away part of Douglas' face, leaving the gore beneath exposed.

 

“Stop it. Stop it.” Martin stared at the floor now, couldn’t look at him. Douglas ceased to speak immediately, his ragged breathing and occasional hiccupped sobs the only evidence that Martin wasn’t alone in the room.

 

For a long, long minute, Martin was silent, trying to process the stammered, shamed confession. _Guilty. Douglas feels hideously guilty. All because…_

 

At long last, he spoke. “Is that why you’ve been so compassionate? Because you feel so mortified?” He looked up again, suddenly really, truly frightened. “Have I misinterpreted everything? You don’t care, it’s just the guilt?”

 

Douglas looked completely shocked despite the clear turmoil he was in. “ _What_? You think I only helped you because…?”

 

“Because you’re ashamed of yourself?” Martin’s pulse was pounding. _You fool, Martin. You complete arsehole. Douglas would never actually care about you._

 

“ _No_.” Truth, sincerity, rang in the single syllable. “I helped – or tried to – because I lo-“ Douglas stopped, aborted the phrase before completing it, whatever it had been. “Because you’re my friend. My _best_ friend. Please – you have to believe that.” Martin was silent, didn’t know what to say. Douglas seemed to be trying to put a thought in order before continuing. “In fact – if it helps you understand – lots of the time I was helping you _in spite of_ the guilt. I wanted to run away and hide. Every time I saw you, it reminded me of what I had do-o-one…” He was unable to finish.

 

Martin’s initial mad throb of terror, that he’d been a blind, self-deluding idiot, abated a little. “So… you do care?” There was a tremor in his speech.

 

“Yes.” Douglas was quiet. “More than you know.” He gulped, looking thoroughly frightened again. “Though I appreciate you may find that difficult to believe just now.”

 

Martin couldn’t put coherent questions together – too many possibilities were presenting themselves. He struggled.

 

“Would you like me to go?” Douglas sounded fearful, tremulous, as he watched him wrestle.

 

“NO.” Martin flung out a hand and Douglas looked relieved, if surprised. “I want to know… I want to know…”

 

“Anything. I owe you – well, whatever you want. Need.” Douglas’ voice was still small and broken.

 

“You – _you_ like men?” Martin astonished himself with the inquiry. Of everything he wanted to ask, why should that particular question suddenly seem so paramount?

 

Douglas looked a little amazed as well. “Err – yes. As long as I can remember.”

 

“You?” Martin couldn’t keep the incredulity from his tone.

 

Douglas shifted, uncomfortably. “I know some people don’t like it. Think it means I’m not a fit pilot… if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll never mention it again –“

 

Martin let his breath go in a rush. “You ARSE, Douglas.” Douglas hung his head, appearing to expect a flood of insults to begin. As Martin stood up, he cringed, as if expecting a blow. “You’re assuming _I’m_ homophobic?”

 

“What?” Douglas’ head flew up. “But I thought – you sounded –“

 

“I’m gay.” Martin stared at him, pinned him with all the ferocity he could manage in a single glance.

  

“You? You’re – you’re gay?” Douglas didn’t seem to be able to integrate this thought into his consciousness.

 

“Always have been. The odd date with princesses notwithstanding.”

 

“I thought – I thought –“ Douglas gulped, an odd expression creasing his brow. “I thought that after what happened, even if you had been –“

 

Martin felt sick again. “They can’t change who I am.”

 

“No, no – but –“ Douglas was floundering. “You didn’t tell me.”

 

“Well, _you_ didn’t tell _me_.”

 

“Touché.” Douglas fell silent again, the guilty expression again twisting his features.

 

Martin strode to the small window, leaned on the sill with a sigh. For a time, he stared into the darkness of the early evening, his mind still spinning at Douglas’ revelation. He could sense the first officer, hesitating behind him, apparently in his power. Pain at Douglas’ plight – at Douglas’ concealment – he didn’t know what to say.

 

Eventually he turned. “You were sick.”

 

Douglas shuddered. “Yes. Completely sick. I’ve never been so disgusted, I don’t blame you – it’s hideous –“

 

“No, no.” Martin hurriedly interrupted. “Not ‘what you _did_ was sick’ – I meant, you vomited. Physically.”

 

“Sorry?” Douglas sounded taken aback.

 

“In your kitchen. The night you came to find me.”

 

Douglas nodded, slowly. “Yes. As soon as they took off that hood…” His voice shook, died. “It was as if my whole being revolted. Screaming, _not him_.” He met Martin’s eyes. “ _Not you_. I would give anything – do anything – if it could have been me instead.”

 

There was a long pause. Martin felt several things fall heavily into place inside him. He held Douglas’ gaze. “I believe you.” He took a deep breath, stepped nearer, aware of the momentousness of what he was about to say. “I forgive you, Douglas. I forgive you.”

 

Douglas shuddered, but didn’t lose his eyeline. “You can’t.”

 

Martin sat down next to him on the bed, wrapped both Douglas’ hands in his. “Wrong. Only _I_ can.” Douglas still looked disbelieving. “You’ve been putting yourself through hell. I know you have.”

 

“It’s what I deserve. For such a gross betrayal –“

 

“Shh.” Martin squeezed his hands tightly, hushing him. “You made a mistake, Douglas. A mistake. One that lasted a quarter of an hour, if that.”

 

“But – “ Douglas tried to protest, but Martin gently raised a hand to cover the FO’s mouth, feeling calmness radiating through his being for the first time in hours. “Since then, what have you done? You have supported me. Without fail, and clearly in spite of your guilt.” He felt his voice choke a little, but pressed on. “You don’t know it, but I think you’ve saved my life.”

 

He knew the truth of those words. There were multiple times when he had only kept going for Douglas, not just that night at the Suspension Bridge. No one else meant as much to him. “One horrible, terrible indiscretion doesn’t cancel that out or make it unimportant.” He softly lifted Douglas’ chin with a crooked finger, encouraging him to meet his eyes again. “I forgive you, Douglas Richardson. Do you believe me?”

 

Slowly, incredulously, Douglas nodded. His face began to clear, his shoulders slumping, their awful burden lightened. There was even a touch of joy in his expression, which kindled a similar feeling in Martin’s chest, a tiny spark flickering.

 

“I don’t – I don’t –“ Douglas tried to speak, swallowed hard. “I don’t deserve you as my friend.”

 

Martin laughed, genuine amusement in it this time, made more intense due to the relief flooding him. _No more secrets_. “Ha. I always feel like I don’t deserve you - that I'm not worthy.” His eyes sparkled a little. “What if – what if we just agreed that we can both be complete idiots, and that idiots deserve each other?”

 

“Sounds fair to me, Captain.” Douglas quirked a tiny smile, and Martin suddenly realized that he was still holding Douglas’ chin.

 

Douglas – who liked men – _Steady. Don’t get ahead of yourself_. He hastily removed his hand, but stopped when he saw a shadow cross Douglas’ face. He was confused.

 

“Douglas?”

 

“It’s nothing.” Douglas smiled softly at him again, and Martin felt his heart tremble within his chest.

 

Cautiously, expecting to be shoved away at any second, he raised his hand again, hovering near Douglas’ face, unable to summon the courage to complete the movement. Douglas seemed to be gripped with similar indecision, just for a moment.

 

Such was the tension in the room, the air practically snapping with heat and electricity, that Martin jumped out of his skin when Douglas’ hand suddenly found his in mid-air. “Gah,” he gasped, making the other man flinch, too.

 

Fortunately, Douglas didn’t let his hand go, despite his surprise. Instead, after pausing for a second, he gently tugged Martin’s palm to meet his cheek, holding it there, closing his eyes, a look of longing such as Martin had never seen flashing across his features. He could feel the two of them trembling together – Douglas, for once, shaking more than him.

 

He didn’t want that – didn’t want his Douglas to shake (‘ _your_ _Douglas?_ ’ questioned a part of his mind, but he hushed the thought) and so without thinking about it, he shuffled even closer, pulled Douglas into him, enfolding two arms solidly around his shoulders.

 

Douglas gave a little gasp – almost a cry – and then burrowed against his chest, causing Martin’s heart to skip not just one beat but three at the utterly unexpected show of vulnerability. “Shh,” he soothed, stroking a hand down the first officer’s back, remembering the hangar at Cannes with a sudden pang of mingled pain and longing. “Shh. We're fine. It’s all OK.”

 

For the first time in six months, Martin could believe that no matter what happened in court, it would be. That things would be alright. Douglas was here. He was with Douglas. They were _both_ idiots, equals – not one on a pedestal, unreachable above the other. Just two people who really, truly cared – who had made stupid mistakes, but who had someone to forgive them for them afterwards. _What more could I ask for?_

 

Well – maybe there was something – but he wouldn’t push. For now, this was enough. Martin closed his eyes, and rested his cheek against Douglas’ soft hair.


	19. Suitcase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's judgement day - literally.

Douglas woke up the following morning with a most peculiar feeling flooding his veins. At first he couldn’t work out where he was – an occupational hazard of a job that took him all over the world, of course – but why should he feel like bursting into song? It took him a good 30 seconds for the events of the preceding evening to crystallise in his brain; Martin’s sincere ‘I forgive you, Douglas Richardson’ replaying gloriously in his mind. A huge sigh of relief escaped him yet again, his stomach flipping over as his whole body relaxed, at ease for the first time in months.

 

He rolled across his pillow, looking over to where Martin still slept on his side in the other small bed, just a metre away. He appeared to have managed a full night with no disturbing dreams; at least, he hadn’t woken Douglas up crying out. Douglas was so thankful – Martin had taken on his former grey and pinched appearance again to some extent over the course of the last month whilst in Riga, and his face was pale, cheek pressed on the white pillow. Douglas took in the sight, taking the chance to gaze at his captain while he slept. The ginger curls tumbled in artless disarray on his forehead, the freckled nose slightly snub, somehow setting off the otherwise delightfully symmetrical face to perfection – giving it an air of adorable boyishness. This was particularly so when Martin was asleep – his face lost the cautious, guarded appearance that he so often wore whilst awake, always ready to defend himself and his position. Douglas gave another little sigh as he drank him in, for once allowing himself to imagine what it might be like to wake up with that face a metre nearer. He usually firmly quashed any such ideas before they could take hold, wary of getting terribly hurt by what he surely couldn’t have, but this morning he was just too happy and relieved to halt his train of thought.

 

 _I forgive you, Douglas Richardson_ …

 

Martin’s eyes slowly batted open, at first gazing sleepily across to Douglas, before a light of awareness entered them at the sight of his first officer. “Morning.”

 

Douglas realized he was smiling softly at the sight of Martin waking up, and hastily rearranged his features into a less soppy expression. “Morning.” He cleared his throat. “Sleep OK?”

 

Martin stretched. “Surprisingly, yes.” He yawned, and rolled on to his back. “You’re obviously good for me.”

 

Douglas felt a pang go through him at the words. _If only._ Shaking himself, he stood up, duvet falling aside. “Alright if I jump in the shower first?”

 

“Course.”

 

Douglas grabbed his wash-bag and towel, and headed for the bathroom. Abruptly, he turned round, wanting to thank Martin again for the night before, but his swift revolve evidently caught Martin by surprise. He stopped dead at the look suddenly plain on the captain’s face - Martin’s eyes had flown up to meet his, slightly guiltily. Douglas was puzzled. “Err – I just wanted to say…” He felt wrong-footed. “Thanks. Again. For yesterday.”

 

“I meant it.” Martin smiled warmly at him, propping himself up on his elbows, guilt dissipating as quickly as it had arisen.

 

“Well. Thanks.” Douglas turned and headed into the shower room. It wasn’t until he’d got himself under the feeble spray that he suddenly guessed the reason for Martin’s flash of embarrassment. _Surely not. Martin couldn’t have been… checking out my arse?_

 

He rubbed shampoo firmly into his hair, shaking his head. _You’re fooling yourself, Richardson_. _Don’t get your silly hopes up._ Douglas considered that heated, guilty look again. _And yet…_

 

“Douglas?” Martin was calling him from outside the bathroom. He sounded stressed, all of a sudden. “Douglas?”

 

Shutting off the water, Douglas replied. “Yes?”

 

“I’ve just had a call. From the court. I need to go in, at 11. They’re… they’re ready.”

 

Douglas felt a sliver of ice shoot down his spine. _That was very, very fast_. “Surely – that’s a good thing?” He tried to sound hopeful, despite his nerves.

 

“Don’t know.” Martin sounded lost, scared.

 

Douglas wanted nothing more than to hug him – but given that he was soaking wet… “I’ll be out in just a second.”

 

“OK. I’ll… I’ll let Carolyn and Arthur know.” Douglas heard the sound of Martin moving round the room, probably pulling on some clothes, then the noise of the room’s door snicking shut. He shivered, the cold air of the draughty hotel chilling him. _Here we go_.

 

* * *

“Is my tie straight? Do I look OK?”

 

“Martin, stop _fussing_. You look fine.” Carolyn’s voice was snappish as the four of them walked up the steps into the courthouse. “Honestly, you’re as bad as Arthur.”

 

“Hey!” Arthur tugged indignantly at his waistcoat.

 

“Everyone looks fine. Smarter than I've ever seen us. No need to worry.” Douglas used his very best soothing voice, though the nerves strumming his senses like a plectrum just then meant he would rather have been babbling agitatedly himself. He tried for levity, doing his best to disguise his qualms. "The opening scene of Reservoir Dogs has nothing on MJN." 

 

“There’s my solicitor,” Martin pointed, catching sight of the brown suit he’d become familiar with over the last month. “You haven’t met him yet, have you?”

 

Carolyn shook her head. “No – introduce us.”

 

Martin led them over. “Good morning, Juris. I’d like you to meet my colleagues – that is, my friends.” He stood a little straighter as he made the correction, the warmth of his feeling evident in the affectionate flick of his eyes over the MJN crew.

 

“Pleased to meet you.” The lawyer shook hands with all of them, smiling unperturbedly as he did so. Douglas drew some comfort from the relaxedness of his attitude, taking in the lack of stress or anxiety in his posture.

 

Martin asked the question before he could. “Is this a good sign? Everything’s suddenly moving very rapidly.”

 

Carolyn chipped in. “We weren’t expecting to hear anything until this afternoon at the earliest – what does it mean?” Douglas leaned closer, too, unable to conceal his twitchiness in spite of himself.

 

Juris nodded. “Don’t worry. It’s unexpected – but not unheard of.” He shuffled some papers together as he picked up his briefcase. “It likely means that the judge and assessors were unanimous in their decision before they even discussed the evidence – so a harmonious judgment was speedy to reach.”

 

“OK…” Martin hesitated. “But what do you think –“ He was interrupted as the doors to their courtroom were flung open.

 

“Please enter.” The legal official gestured over at Juris and Martin. “ _Mēs sāksim piecās minūtēs_.”

 

“We’ll begin in five minutes, he says.” Juris nodded at Douglas, Carolyn and Arthur. “You’d better take your seats.”

 

Martin took a deep breath, looking terrified but resilient. Douglas instinctively patted him on the back. “We’re right here. Whatever happens.”

 

Martin nodded, swallowing hard.

 

“You can do this.” Carolyn’s voice had that rare note of tenderness she only brought out once in a very blue moon.

 

“Good luck, Skip!” Arthur’s tones were full of his usual bounce. Douglas smiled. _No nerves for Arthur_.

 

“OK. OK. OK.” Martin clutched his hands together. “See you in a bit.” He sketched an anxious smile, and followed Juris into the courtroom. Douglas watched him as he disappeared round the wooden doors, his heart jackhammering uncomfortably in his chest.

 

He gestured towards the public gallery, essaying his usual suaveness. “Shall we?”

 

* * *

The entire courtroom full of people rose to their feet as the judge walked in, flanked by her two assessors. Douglas craned his neck as she gestured for them all to be seated, taking in the back of Martin’s auburn head, slim shoulders compulsively twitching with his tension. “You can do it, Martin,” he muttered, under his breath.

 

His gaze moved across the room, to where the three accused were seated, police officers either side of each of them. They looked almost… small. So deceptively ordinary, in their cheap suits. Douglas had walked past hundreds of similar men in the streets in his life and would never have given them a second thought… his guts clenched. How many people were there out there, similarly capable of such brutality? His lip curled involuntarily as Leo looked up, blue eyes flitting round the room. They settled on him, briefly, and Douglas stared into his face, trying to put across with his expression that which he couldn’t shout, however much he wanted to. _You’d better hope to go to prison. You nearly destroyed my - Martin. I want you in pain - tortured - suffering._

 

Leo steadily held his gaze. His nose wrinkled, as if trying to convey disdain, arrogance. But his eyes flicked away, nerves apparently getting the better of him, to Douglas’ minor satisfaction. The other two just stared at the floor, as one of their solicitors bent over to whisper to them.

 

The judge had taken her seat. She began speaking, a flood of mellifluous Latvian pouring forth. Douglas knew Martin was receiving a simultaneous translation through an earpiece – the British Embassy had recommended him the services of once of the best-regarded translators in Riga, thanks to Herc’s brother’s influence. It was so frustrating not to understand what was happening – it just ratcheted up the tension as the three of them in the gallery tried to read the body language of whoever happened to be talking. And this judge was remarkably hard to interpret in her calm, cool professionalism.

 

The opening statement seemed to go on and on – the judge was likely recapping the charges or summing up the grounds for her verdict, Douglas supposed. He stared hard at the back of Martin’s head, willing him to be alright. Carolyn and Arthur were just as tensely focused either side of him – he could feel Arthur’s shoulder vibrating against his. He patted his knee reassuringly, and jumped as he felt Carolyn – _Carolyn_ – take his right hand, their sweaty fingers clutching each other.

 

The judge gestured to the three on trial. They stood, and so did she. Next to him, Carolyn gave an almost inaudible squeak, and Douglas clutched her hand so hard all the blood went out of his clammy palm.

 

“ _Spriedums ir…_ ” The judge spoke, pausing to look up from her papers. Douglas heard each of their names read out, cursing his lack of understanding. “ _Leo P_ _ě_ _tersons, vainīgs. Arnolds Ozols, vainīgs. Gvido Balodis, vainīgs_.”

 

Douglas leant forward, desperately. _What’s Martin hearing_? As he leaned, he saw Juris clutch Martin’s shoulder, witnessed the captain fling himself forward, hiding his face in his folded arms on the bench.

 

“What is it? What’s happened?” Carolyn’s voice was a loud hiss in his ear. Desperately he shook his head, all his attention fixed on Martin. Not understanding was _agony_ – what was going on?

 

Martin’s shoulders were shaking, now, but the judge had kept speaking. Only then did it occur to Douglas to look over at the three perpetrators – how had they reacted?

 

The same thought had obviously struck Arthur, who had grabbed his other hand. “Douglas – look!”

 

Douglas _was_ looking, and hope was burning afresh in his heart. The three men all looked furious – though the short, fat one seemed to be shaking his head in resignation. Those were not faces that had received good news…

 

The judge finished what she’d been saying, and gestured for the court to rise again. Before she could dismiss them – having raised her hands to do so – Leo’s cold voice rang out, his icy, angry stare directed clearly at Martin.

 

“ _Fuck you_.” He spat at the ground, receiving a jab from the nearest two police officers for his pains. Enraged, Douglas whipped his head round to check how Martin had taken the insult. To his surprise, Martin had turned to face the three of them in the dock – Douglas knew that Martin had expressly avoided looking at any of the men throughout the proceedings, for fear of what he might see… but now, Martin was staring Leo full in the face. Douglas couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t read his expression – but he could interpret Leo’s body language as he quailed under Martin’s apparently ferocious gaze. Leo looked away first, his posture slumping, and Douglas felt like cheering. Martin stood straight-backed, head thrown up, chin out, pride radiating through every fibre of his being - Juris’ hand was still clapped supportively to his shoulder.

 

The judge cleared her throat again, dismissively. “ _Noraidīja_.” She walked down, towards the exit. Douglas leaned forwards again, still clinging to Carolyn and Arthur – surely – surely – this meant –

 

Martin turned around at long, long last, triumph and happiness blazing in his radiant expression. He looked straight at Douglas, and mouthed what they had all tentatively guessed, but didn’t dare to believe without confirmation. “ _Guilty. Guilty._ ”

 

And as one, the three of them raised their entwined hands into the air, without a second thought, as if they’d won a peculiar world cup. “ _Guilty_!” Douglas had never imagined that he’d cheer the word so loudly. Or that he’d ever hug Carolyn, with Arthur behind him, thumping him delightedly on the back, the three of them laughing and crying and gasping with relief all at once.

 

* * *

“Martin!” Carolyn – staid, unemotional Carolyn – was running through the lobby to get to the captain. Douglas barely had a second to appreciate the bizarreness of the sight – Carolyn’s sturdy, sixty-something year old figure trotting urgently through the foyer, handbag bouncing on her arm – before he was running too, throwing caution and dignity to the wind. All he wanted was to hug Martin, to congratulate him, to check he was really OK.

 

The three of them reached him all at once, Arthur launching himself bodily at his Skip to give him an enormous hug. Martin staggered backwards a step or two, his slim figure no match for the steward’s exuberance. For a second Douglas was worried that the contact would be too much for Martin – he knew the captain still generally avoided even handshakes with anyone but him – but the circumstances seemed to have created a much-needed exception to his usual sensitivity. Arthur’s arms still round his waist, Martin glanced up, with shining eyes, and held out an arm each to Douglas and Carolyn. Juris looked on, smiling, as the four of them hugged warmly.

 

It wasn’t the longest embrace – Martin’s discomfort with tactility made itself felt after half a minute – but it was clear that they’d all needed it. Douglas couldn’t believe the sensation of relief pouring through him, lightening his head and making him feel almost giddy. He turned swiftly to Juris, needing to have his most urgent question answered. “What happens now?”

 

Juris spoke carefully, his lightly accented English thoughtful but confident. “Well – now that they have all three been found guilty of Martin’s attack, there will be a sentencing hearing.”

 

Carolyn was listening too, and chipped in. “When will that be?”

 

“They face other charges as well, for which they are due to be tried separately – those relating to their trade in and distribution of – what’s the word – _ketamīns_?”

 

“Ketamine,” Douglas supplied.

 

“Yes. This they must still face trial for. Their sentencing for this crime is likely to wait until the verdict of that case so both can be considered at once, so it will be several weeks at least.”

 

Douglas nodded. “OK. But how long will they be locked up – I mean, can you guess how long…?” He trailed off inquiringly.

 

Juris pondered. “It is something I have discussed a little with Martin. It is impossible to be certain, of course, but the crime was heinous – and there was such strong evidence against them, including of the coercive drug use – I would guess that the judge would impose a longer sentence than average.” He looked reassuringly over at Martin, who was pale beneath his freckles, Douglas realized – the strain of the day beginning to show clearly in his face. “I would be surprised if they got less than five years. Especially since you are a foreigner. I suspect they will set an example – we need tourists to be happy and confident to visit Latvia.”

 

Martin gave a shaky nod. Douglas could see him starting to quiver, and he stepped forwards urgently. “Martin – do you need to sit down?”

 

Martin blushed a little. “Yes. Yes please.” He looked embarrassed, but Carolyn took him by the arm, ushering him to a bench. He sank down on to the wooden seat, breathing a little more easily. “Sorry – it’s just been a bit of a whirlwind of a day.” He passed a white hand over his eyes. “I’ll be alright in a minute.” He smiled tremulously at them.

 

Juris reached out a hand to shake. “I’ll be off – I want to let my office know the verdict. They’ll be delighted for you, Martin. You have my number – I’ll be in touch regarding the sentencing in the coming days, once I have more details.”

 

Douglas stopped him departing with a last question. “Can Martin – I mean, is he free to leave, now? If the sentencing won’t be for weeks? Can we take him home?” At the thought, hope soared in his soul.

 

Juris smiled. “Of course you can. He’s free to go – unlike the three there.” He gestured behind them, satisfaction ringing in his tones. The three men were being led out, handcuffed and surrounded by police. Douglas half-stepped in front of Martin, as if to shield him, but none of them looked up as they were led through a side door. Douglas just caught a glimpse of the police van waiting beyond.

 

As the door closed after them, Douglas slumped on to the bench, quite weak with relief. Beside him, Martin let out a deep breath too. The two of them instinctively leaned into one another, Douglas finding the warmth of the slender shoulder pressing into him an inexpressible comfort.

 

Carolyn took in their haggard expressions. “Right, Douglas, you stay here with Martin. Arthur – I think we all need a cup of tea – if Latvia _does_ tea.” She looked dubious, but determined. “Juris – can you recommend anywhere we can find some?”

 

“Of course. Come with me.” Arthur and Carolyn turned to follow him. “I’ll bid you farewell for now, Martin.”

 

Martin shook his hand a second time. “Thanks, Juris. For everything.”

 

“No problem. I’ll catch up with you soon.”

 

Douglas watched as the three of them walked off, still feeling Martin tilting into him. The lobby was quiet, now – the throng of people who’d been in their courtroom had all dispersed and it was just the two of them on their uncomfortable wooden bench, sitting in companionable silence.

 

He half turned to Martin, surprised to find that as he swivelled his head Martin’s face was already there, staring into his. An odd heat flared inside him, but he kept his voice steady as he asked “Alright?”

 

Martin looked serious as he nodded. “Glad it’s over.” A look of slight wonderment passed through his eyes. “It’s over,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

 

“Yes,” Douglas agreed, pride in Martin swelling in his chest. “You did amazingly. You should be so, so proud of yourself.”

 

Martin flushed scarlet. “I don’t know about that...”

 

Douglas was emphatic. “ _I_ do. You were brilliant. I wish I had half your courage.”

 

“You have! Just look at how brave you were last night.” Martin beamed, in spite of his pallor.

 

The events of the prior evening flew through Douglas’ brain, vivid and immediate. Without thinking about it, he raised his hand to his cheek, caressed the spot where Martin’s palm had been the night before, warm against his face. Martin’s wide eyes tracked his movement and Douglas could see that the captain knew exactly what he was thinking of. For a second, he shivered, horribly embarrassed and exposed – still guilty about everything he felt for Martin – but then he clocked the expression in the younger man's face. Martin’s eyes were soft – almost – yearning – _it can’t be_ – Douglas’ lungs seemed to clench as he held his breath.

 

Martin had raised his hand, much as he had the previous evening – except that this time, he had the courage to complete the action. He placed his hand gently on Douglas’ cheek, where it burned pleasantly, intoxicatingly, against his skin. Douglas felt his eyelids flutter as he hesitantly looked up again to meet Martin’s gaze, simultaneously desperate for and terrified at what he might find there.

 

“Douglas?” Martin whispered. He was so close – impossibly near – Douglas shivered, hardly daring to believe what was happening.

 

“Yes?” he spoke softly, in reply, not wanting to disturb the moment. It seemed a thing of delicate fragility, shimmering like a soap bubble between them.

 

“You – you said you cared.”

 

“I do.” Douglas’ heart was bounding as Martin’s hand wavered against his face.

 

“Then – I’ll try to be as brave as you think I am.”

 

Douglas couldn’t parse the phrase, for a second, didn’t quite understand the meaning – _brave_? – but then he saw Martin leaning in and everything fell into place.

 

He found Martin’s other hand with his, clutching briefly – releasing to grasp for the younger man’s waist – closed his eyes, and finally, finally, Martin’s mouth was moving softly on his, gently and slowly, and the feeling, oh, the feeling – it was as if Douglas was radiating light from the inside out, pure joy streaming from every pore in his skin. Martin was here – and he cared – and he was his –

 

Martin disengaged with a soft shiver and a small smile. Douglas felt his eyes flicker open, taking in the unbelievable sight of Martin’s face so close to his own. Exhilarated incredulity swamped him and he struggled to get his breath, much less speak.

 

Martin broke the silence with a touch of his habitual nervousness, eyes searching Douglas’ face with heated intensity. “Was that – is that… OK?”

 

Still unable to form words, Douglas nodded furiously, conveying his satisfaction with a firm squeeze round Martin’s waist. He felt him relax a little, delighting in the little smile that leapt on to the captain’s face. “I can’t believe…” he croaked, cursing his lack of fluency. “You have no idea.” He shook his head. “ _No_ idea.”

 

Martin laughed, quietly. “It’s you that has no idea, Douglas.” A worried look creased his brow and he tensed slightly again, making concern spark in Douglas’ chest. “I can’t promise – I mean… I’m not sure that it’ll be easy…”

 

“Shh…” Douglas gently caressed his cheekbone with an outstretched finger. “Nothing that’s easy is worth having in the first place.” He gloried in the green eyes meeting his, marvelled at the trust and reassurance that kindled there at his words. “We’ll try. At whatever pace _you_ want.”

 

Martin nodded, giving a breathy little sigh of relief that made Douglas’ stomach do a very pleasant flip inside him. “In that case… can I, again?” He looked the question at Douglas, tentatively.

 

Douglas smiled, leaned in once more. “You never need to ask, you daft thing. The answer will always be…” Their lips met a second time, moving in warm concert. Douglas’ final word was gasped almost inaudibly into Martin’s mouth as the heat of the moment overtook them both. “…Yes. Yes.”


	20. Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Douglas' relationship is still a secret - but is Douglas ready for the next step? Come to that, is Martin?

Douglas pushed open the door of the portacabin with a spring in his step, despite the January chill of the outside air. “Morning!” he called brightly as he hung up his thick coat.

 

“Hi, Douglas!” Arthur’s beaming face greeted him as he turned round. “Coffee?”

 

“Please.” Douglas wandered over to his desk and took his seat. “Where’s our illustrious alpha dog of a CEO this morning, then?”

 

“She’s out at the plane with Martin.” Arthur busied himself with the kettle.

 

“Everything all right?” Douglas kept his tone carefully casual, trying to ensure Arthur would continue not to suspect a thing. Back on the bench at the courthouse the previous month, he and Martin had made the rapid decision to keep… developments… between the two of them private for now, both sharing the opinion that their new relationship was complicated and – to be honest – pressured enough without introducing what Douglas liked to think of as ‘The Knapp-Shappey Factor’ into the equation. Besides which, he knew how excited Arthur would be if he discovered the truth – he thought even Christmas-Arthur might not compare – and for now, the idea was a bit overwhelming, let alone the reality.

 

Arthur grabbed Douglas’ mug from the cupboard as he returned an easy answer to the first officer’s nonchalantly-posed question. “Everything’s fine. Martin just said he wanted to show Mum how he wanted the hold organized from now on.”

 

“Of course he did.” Douglas grinned, feeling as if he’d heard of nothing but this new scheme from Martin for the past few days, whenever they’d been alone. And they’d been alone quite a bit, Douglas having cooked Martin dinner two of the three nights after work and helped him with a van job on the intervening day, much to Martin’s surprise and appreciation. Douglas vividly recalled the captain’s flushed cheeks, his excitable hand gestures as he’d talked him through his new plans for GERTI. Douglas couldn’t have cared less about the specifics, it was just a joy to see Martin look so enthusiastic and full of life, especially such a short time after he’d looked so pinched and pale in Riga. It had only been six weeks before that he’d been sitting in that dreadful courtroom, for goodness’ sake – now, he looked almost like his old self. And Douglas secretly hoped that the evolution of their friendship in the intervening period had been at least partly responsible for the change. The time since December seemed almost dreamlike to him – filled with a brilliant, joyous new secret, such a difference to the hideous skeleton he’d had lurking in his closet throughout the months before.

 

Arthur set his coffee down on his desk, snapping Douglas out of his happy recollections. “Here you go!”

 

“Thanks.” Douglas hastily schooled his features into a more neutral expression, rather than the soft smile he seemed to find slipping on to his face at the drop of a hat these days. Arthur was generally easy to fool, but Carolyn was a much more challenging proposition. It wouldn’t do for her to burst back in and find him smiling dreamily into his mug – especially at barely 8am. She’d know something was up in a trice.

 

It was a good job he had mastered his grin, because the next second Carolyn and Martin blew into the office, an eddy of dead leaves following them in from the apron outdoors. Douglas raised a laconic hand in greeting, concealing the little hop that his insides always made these days at the sight of his slender, ginger, freckly captain. Especially when – as now – the wind had ruffled the normally carefully regimented curls of Martin’s hair into cheerful messiness, making them tumble across his forehead in a manner at once both rakish and deeply attractive. Martin caught him staring, looked up and then clapped on his hat with a shy grin. Douglas winked sneakily, before quickly shooting a glance over at Carolyn to check she hadn’t noticed.

 

Fortunately, their boss was too busy preparing to berate Arthur for the grains of coffee he’d managed to scatter over the floor while sorting Douglas’ brew out, so they’d apparently got away with it. Martin took his chair at his own desk before looking back at Douglas. “Have you done the load sheet for today?” he asked, primly, and Douglas noted proudly that Martin’s acting skills were coming on a treat. He’d injected just the right degree of long-suffering impatience into the query – no one would ever have been able to guess that just twelve hours before he’d quavered out Douglas’ name straight into his mouth and cheek while Douglas’ hands caressed his back with broad, gentle strokes…

 

 _Ahem_. Douglas pulled his mind back to the task in hand. It was all too easy to drift off into thoughts of Martin these days, even if their relationship to date had been the most chaste one Douglas had ever been involved in, for understandable reasons.

 

“Here you are. Did it yesterday. Child’s play.” Just as smug as he’d ever been.

 

“Martin, do the briefing,” Carolyn’s tones were brisk as she marched over to them, having finished giving Arthur a short ticking off in the corner while the two pilots had had their exchange.

 

“Fine.” Martin shuffled his papers importantly, looking every inch the pompous captain he’d been when he joined MJN six years ago. Except that now, Douglas could actually respect him – more than that – knew the soft, vulnerable interior that lay beneath that proud shell…

 

“So, flight time today is 90 minutes. Clear skies at Bordeaux, mild turbulence expected over the Channel…” Douglas shook himself, and focused on Martin’s words, rather than just the pleasant sound of his voice. It was so good to have him back.

 

* * *

 

“Need a lift home, Martin?” Douglas made his voice easy and matter-of-fact as he called across the office to the captain at the end of their shift.

 

Martin’s ears went a little pinker. “Um. Yes please.” His eyes flicked sideways to where Arthur was wiping the sink in the corner, having spilt dried coffee everywhere for the _second_ time that day. He seemed oblivious, and Douglas saw Martin’s shoulders relax a little.

 

“But your van’s in the car park.” Neither of them had noticed Carolyn’s door wasn’t closed. She appeared in the doorway, frowning.

 

“It’s – err –“ Martin had flushed scarlet. “Um… um…” Her eyes narrowed, and Martin shot a panicky glance at Douglas.

 

“It’s still making that rattly noise, isn’t it?” Douglas sounded as careless as he could. “Phil’s going to take a look at it in the morning, isn’t he?”

 

“Yes. Yes he is.” A touch too much gratitude was apparent in Martin’s tones. Carolyn raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more.

 

“Come on then, supreme commander.” Douglas shrugged on his coat and headed for the door, hearing Martin trailing behind him. “See you tomorrow, both.”

 

“Bye, chaps!” Arthur’s merry farewell was perfectly normal.

 

“Goodnight.” _Definite_ suspicion in Carolyn’s voice, though. Douglas chuckled as he made his way outdoors, and waited for Martin to fall into step beside him.

 

“Phew. Thanks,” Martin breathed. “I thought we’d had it, then.”

 

“No,” Douglas laughed reassuringly. “Douglas Richardson is always one step ahead.”

 

Martin grinned at him, and Douglas beamed back as he felt the tentative press of the younger man’s fingers threading through his own in view of the desertedness of the car park. Martin had definitely been getting more comfortable with physical contact, of late. To begin with, much as he seemed at ease curling up in Douglas’ arms, the smallest thing would scare him off – Douglas had even learnt not to move suddenly or breathe too loudly, lest he startle him. If he did, Martin would spring away, often panting a bit, a momentary look of panic that Douglas hated to see shooting across his face. The kissing they had engaged in so far was, as Arthur would put it, _brilliant_ – but Martin struggled to relax into it as a general rule, and that put Douglas slightly on edge, too. He knew that – for now at least – he couldn’t just switch off and go with the flow with Martin, that he had to be attentive to every little thing so as not to unnerve him.

 

With other partners, Douglas thought, he might have found it intolerable. He was so used to letting his senses lead him that he’d never really thought much about the physical side of his relationships before; he’d always just been blessed with the confidence that allowed him to let his natural instincts rule with no thought for the consequences. But with Martin, rather than finding the need for caution to be an irritant, Douglas found himself taking a peculiar sort of pride in always ensuring Martin’s comfort; he cared so, so much about this man.

 

It almost scared him, if he reflected too deeply on it – the possibility of getting hurt if something were to go wrong a much more serious, realistic one than he’d ever encountered before at a similarly early stage of a relationship. What made it better were moments like this, where Martin reached out to him, trustingly, making contact because _he_ clearly wanted to. And that made Douglas feel more special than he knew how to say.

 

“Carolyn’s bound to guess sooner or later.” Martin’s voice was a little concerned as they reached Douglas’ car.

 

“She will, yes.” Douglas shrugged.

 

“Do you think we should… say something?”

 

Douglas looked up, a little surprised, before zapping the central locking so they could get in. He’d been holding back mainly for Martin’s sake. “Do you want to?”

 

Martin looked conflicted as they slid into their seats. “I’m not sure.” His hand found Douglas’ again as he reached for the gearstick, sending a little warm throb at the touch through Douglas’ bones. “I mean – I’m not ashamed to have them know.” He smiled warmly over to his right, where Douglas sat. “But – I like having this secret, too. It’s – it’s nice that it’s just ours, sort of.”

 

Douglas tried not to show just how much this pleased him. “I know what you mean.” He started the engine. “We don’t have to decide today.”

 

“No,” Martin agreed, letting his hand slip away so Douglas could shift into reverse. He let out a small, contented sigh. “Not today.”

 

* * *

 

Martin had offered to cook tonight in Douglas’ kitchen, a bit nervously, and Douglas had agreed. He was somewhat intrigued as to what the captain would come up with (a small, slightly snobby part of him praying it wouldn’t just be baked potato). He’d offered to provide whatever ingredients Martin required but Martin had proudly refused, saying he wanted it to be a surprise.

 

Douglas’ intrigue only rose further when Martin wouldn’t let him come into the supermarket they stopped off at on the way back, disappearing in a cloud of mysteriousness to return a quarter of an hour later with a full shopping bag that he deliberately cached in the boot of the Lexus, where Douglas couldn’t peek.

 

“You’re going to great lengths with this surprise meal, _mon capitaine_ ,” he purred as he pulled out of the car park, and was entertained and ridiculously flattered to see Martin blush, an adorable smile creeping across his face as he tried to brush off the effect that Douglas’ voice had on him.

 

“I’m not saying anything. It’s all a secret.” Martin’s tone was teasing, despite the flush colouring his cheeks and clashing horribly with his hair.

 

“Hmm…” Douglas focused on the road, trying to divert his mind from just how much he was tempted to simply pull over and kiss Martin senseless. Laybys definitely lacked a certain _je ne sais quoi_ in the romantic stakes, after all, whereas his sofa after a meal would be just perfect for such an idea – so the quicker they got back, the better.

 

When they finally arrived, Martin waved Douglas away in the kitchen, still clutching the opaque bag to himself with endearing fierceness; despite his best efforts at stealing a sneaky glance, Douglas had no idea what it contained. “You sit down,” Martin instructed. “You’ve had a long day.”

 

“I’ve had the same day you’ve had,” Douglas shot back. “The one where Arthur served us god-awful airline paella that he’d only barely reheated and Carolyn shouted at us for ten minutes straight because we had to hold for five circuits at Bordeaux and use up more of her precious fuel.”

 

“Despite the fact that it was ATC’s fault.” Martin frowned, but then his brow cleared. “Nonetheless. It’s my turn. Get lost, you.” He gave Douglas a teasing shove between the shoulderblades, which Douglas resisted for just long enough to turn and peck Martin teasingly on the cheek. He was surprised when Martin speedily ditched the bag on the kitchen table and pulled him back, catching Douglas’ neck and turning him inwards to his narrow chest, pressing their lips fervently together for the first time that evening.

 

“Mmm.” Martin finally released him with a soft hum, looking shyly up at Douglas through his eyelashes. “I’ve – I’ve wanted to do that all day.”

 

Douglas was rendered momentarily speechless, Martin’s words sending a delicious pulse straight through him. It was rare for Martin to be so demonstrative, even in private; rarer still for the captain to – even gently – manhandle him into a kiss. He recovered himself as quickly as he could, reaching out a finger to smooth down Martin’s cheek.

 

But he’d moved too fast, and in Martin’s peripheral vision – the younger man shied sideways, taken by surprise by the sudden way in which Douglas’ arm had flown up. He cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed by his reaction, as Douglas hastily, guiltily apologized. “Sorry, Martin. I’m sorry.”

 

Martin shook his head, tried to smile. “It’s fine.” He stepped forwards once more, wound his hands into the slightly curling hair at the nape of Douglas’ neck. Douglas leaned in slowly, telegraphing his intentions. He settled his hands quietly at Martin’s waist – not tugging, just a soothing press – before kissing him, at first more chastely this time, although things gradually became heated as the captain licked softly at the junction of his lips and their tongues met with an electrifying slide, sparks seeming to fizz with pleasure in Douglas’ brain.

 

Martin eventually broke away with a little gasp, and this time his smile was genuine. “Go away, you. Sit in your beautiful lounge. I’m in charge.”

 

“As ever,” Douglas tossed back, smoothly. As he turned to leave, though, something caught his eye. His habitual caressing sweep of eyes over Martin’s form on exiting revealed something that he’d not spotted before, even after all the kissing they’d done over the past six weeks. The usual neat line of Martin’s trousers – unless he was much mistaken – was broken in one, very telling place… Martin was _very_ turned on.

 

Martin hadn’t commented on it, so Douglas wasn’t about to – he wandered into the lounge as instructed, slight consternation beginning to twist in his gut. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been thinking that… that… was where they were headed; indeed, a couple of times he’d had to use every trick in his considerable arsenal to prevent himself ending up in a similar state, terrified of making Martin flee from something he couldn’t possibly be ready for.

 

Douglas knew logically that just because Martin had reacted physically to their heated kiss, it didn’t mean that he was about to pull him into bed by his epaulettes and ravish him right there and then. He was well aware that the captain knew how to live life in a restrained manner – an eight year diet of pasta and the odd jacket potato was testament to that. But the fact that at least _part_ of Martin was obviously aroused and interested by him – that should have been an ego boost, a hugely flattering, exciting discovery. So why did he feel so conflicted?

 

Douglas sighed as he slumped to the sofa. Of _course_ he felt conflicted. More than conflicted. A little bit terrified. And not just about how Martin was going to react to a more physical manifestation of their relationship, either… no, it was more than that.

 

It was something he’d tentatively begun to discuss with Eve at their last appointment. He’d found it really difficult to talk about, had struggled even to bring it up. Only the extreme level of trust he’d developed in her over the course of more than 40 sessions over the years made it possible for him to speak.

 

_I’m worried… about what happens when… when he and I… you know._

 

She’d raised an eyebrow, invited him to continue with her glance.

 

 _Not that I’ll be disappointing or that it’ll be… bad. I have experience enough to…_  He’d coughed, unsure how to proceed. Tried again. _It’s just that… the only time I’ve ever seen Martin be… sexual… it was in that video. And what if – what if…_

 

He’d stammered into silence, but she’d understood. It was that thought that was clamouring in his brain now, all his innermost worries suddenly right at the surface. _What if – when we’re in bed – that video is all I can think about_? Worry churned in his guts and he stared blankly ahead, unsure what to do, what to feel.

 

“Dinner’s ready.” Martin was suddenly in the doorway, giving him another shy smile, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

 

Douglas shook himself, gave an absent nod. A look of slight concern flashed over Martin’s face as he wandered over to help him up, tugging Douglas gently to his feet. Douglas made more of an effort to engage, trying to grin, patting Martin gently on the back. Avoiding the swell of his gorgeous arse _very_ intentionally.

 

 _Stop thinking_ , he chastised himself, and followed Martin into the kitchen.

 

* * *

“That,” Douglas said, setting his knife and fork down with a satisfied sigh, “was abso-bloody-lutely fantastic.”

 

“Oh.” A pleased grin erupted across Martin’s features. “Did you – did you really think so?”

 

“Yes.” Douglas was emphatic. “How did you know that veal was my favourite? I haven’t had it for months and months!” _And how did you ever afford it?_ Though he knew much better than to voice that potentially insulting thought aloud.

 

Martin had flushed with pleasure. “I overheard you telling Carolyn.”

 

Douglas cast his mind back. And then further back. A bemused expression crossed his face. “But… that was months ago. Nearly a year ago, in fact. Weren’t we in Rome?”

 

Martin looked guilty. “Err – yes.”

 

“But why – you remembered?” Douglas was puzzled.

 

Martin looked down at the table, going an even deeper shade of beetroot beneath his ginger curls. “Well – I always noticed what you said. Even – even back then.”

 

A very pleasant warmth spread through Douglas. Gently, he reached out, slowly tugged Martin’s chin back up so that their eyes met. “Thank you. It was wonderful.” The gratitude rang true, sincerity making itself plain. “I can’t believe you remembered. All this time.” He smiled, feeling his heart beat faster at the sight of Martin’s face, relaxing as he basked in Douglas’ praise.

 

Martin stood, began to clear the plates. “Leave them,” Douglas said, waving a hand. “I’ll do it later.”

 

Martin hovered for a second. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes. I just want to sit with you, now – no tidying allowed.” Douglas smiled as he tugged Martin through to the settee, pulling him down next to him. Martin came willingly, snuggling into the crook of Douglas’ arm, where he fitted as if he were made to rest there.

 

“Douglas?”

 

“Hmm?” Douglas felt lazy, much more relaxed than before. His worries still circled, like vultures over a distant cadaver, but they were in the background, where they belonged – not pressing right up against his frontal cortex as they had been before the meal.

 

“Are you alright?” Martin cleared his throat, pushed himself away a bit, looking into Douglas’ eyes with great seriousness.

 

Douglas’ throat clutched a little. The qualms were abruptly front and centre again. “I’m fine.” He tried for a reassuring grin, but knew he’d failed when Martin’s brow just lined further.

 

“You seem a bit better now, but – when I came to get you for dinner, I couldn’t help but think – was something bothering you?”

 

Douglas was silent for a moment, wondering what to say – what it was acceptable to reveal. Gently, he reached his hand out to Martin’s face, traced a thumb over the slightly parted, soft lips. Martin’s eyelids slid shut as he leaned in to the light contact. Douglas sighed. “Yes. I was… worrying about something.”

 

Martin’s eyes flew open again, concern apparent within them. He was clearly trying to keep his voice light as he spoke. “Can I – I mean, is it anything that I can… help with?” He caressed Douglas’ thigh with a gentle stroke as he offered.

 

The feeling of Martin’s hand, the caring pressure, sent a throb straight to Douglas’ cock against his will. He fought to keep his mind clear enough to answer. “I was worried… well, not worried, exactly – I don’t know the right word –“ He bit his lip in frustration, his thumb still moving softly at Martin’s lips. “I couldn’t help but notice – in the kitchen…” _Lord. I’m blushing now_. “You seemed more… excited, than usual.”

 

Martin’s eyes flickered, but not in embarrassment, as Douglas had expected. “Yes,” he said quietly, and waited for Douglas to continue.

 

Douglas cleared his throat. “Don’t get me wrong – I was – no, am – not saying that there’s anything _wrong_ with that.” _Damn it, why is this so_ difficult _?_ “I’m really – flattered. Err- interested, even.” As if to prove it, he felt his heart beat again in his groin, knew his shaft was a little fuller than normal. “I just… I feel very… _responsible_. And a bit… well, nervous, I suppose.”

 

Martin’s focus still hadn’t shifted from him. “Me too,” he admitted, his voice still soft. “But, Douglas…” his eyes shifted down, running his gaze over the first officer like a caress. “…At some point – when you’re ready, of course –“ here he cleared his throat, a touch of his normal bashfulness evident for the first time – “I’d like to try. Really. I really would.”

 

Douglas’ mouth had gone dry, his usual witty repartee entirely absent. “You – you would?”

 

Martin nodded, locking eyes with Douglas once again. The room suddenly seemed very still, all sounds from outside the house vanished away. It was as if it were just the two of them left in the universe.

 

Douglas wondered if he should move his hand – it was resting warmly against Martin’s chin, though not propping him up, more just feeling, stroking – his thumb returned to the delicate line between the contrasting pinks of Martin’s lips and skin, tracing it gently while he pondered what to say.

 

Martin was still steadily meeting his gaze, a look growing gradually more impassioned as Douglas drew the pad of his thumb softly along his face. Nonetheless, what happened next still took Douglas completely by surprise.

 

Martin sighed, letting his mouth fall open a little wider. His tongue flicked out, catching Douglas’ digit, licking a light stripe up the side, lingering as he reached the top. Douglas took in a sudden inhalation of air, feeling an intense tingling in his chest at the unanticipated contact.

 

Martin looked at him, gauging his reaction. He didn’t see rejection, which appeared to increase his bravery. With a soft exhalation of his own, he leaned further forward and sucked the whole of Douglas’ thumb into his mouth, sheathing his teeth with his lips so all Douglas could sense was softness and delicious wet heat encompassing him.

 

“ _Christ_.” Douglas felt as if all the oxygen had been dragged from his lungs in one go. Martin’s green eyes were contemplating him as he continued to suckle. “My God… Martin…” He almost reacted with speed, catching himself just in time, instead moving his free hand slowly and cautiously up to stroke Martin’s other cheek, needing to respond in some way, to demonstrate the passionate adoration flooding him to his core.

 

With a little _pop_ Martin released his thumb, closing his eyes as he tilted into the caress. “Douglas,” he whispered, clearly just for the pleasure of saying the word, and Douglas felt his heart suddenly quadruple in size in reply.

 

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was urgent now. “Martin, please _God,_ let me kiss you.”

 

Martin simply smiled. “You never have to ask. You daft thing.”

 

Douglas grinned, aware that his own words were being quoted back at him. He pulled Martin closer, but hesitated just before their mouths touched. Martin’s eyes, very near, met his quizzically.

 

“This isn’t me – pushing. I don’t expect anything,” Douglas practically panted, aware of an increasing bulge in his trousers telling a different story.

 

Martin shook his head. “I know. I just – I _want_ you,” his voice suffused with such longing that Douglas could only groan and close the gap between them, pressing Martin closer than he’d ever dared to before.

 

The position was awkward – Douglas had been leaning at an angle, meaning Martin was now tipped uncomfortably far forward, in danger of overbalancing. Even so, Douglas was surprised when Martin took charge, pulling him forward to redress the equilibrium of their positions. It felt surprisingly good to be treated with such loving firmness, it taking away even more of his uncertainties, still lingering and niggling at the back of his brain. He knew in the abstract he should be nervous – knew that there was something really vital that had been bothering him – but with the hot, insistent motion of Martin’s lips on his and the delightfully ticklish feeling of the slim-fingered hands now gently slipping inside his white shirt, he was struggling to focus – extremely pleasantly struggling…

 

They broke apart with a shiver each, hands still busily exploring, chests, nipples, throats… Douglas couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t form a coherent thought. Martin seemed to be in a similar state, his lungs heaving air, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

 

Douglas managed words at last, sliding his hands to gently hold Martin’s shoulders – mostly in order that he could concentrate, as the feeling of Martin's peaked nipples between his fingers under the cotton of his shirt had been more erotic than he knew how to cope with. “Do you – do you want to…” He didn’t dare complete the sentence.

 

Martin, his cheeks hectic with colour, nodded. His eyes flickered down, showing timidity for the first time that evening.

 

Concern filled Douglas. _Perhaps this is a bad idea – perhaps we’re not ready_ –

 

Martin spoke. “I want to. I really, _really_ want to.” The yearning was back in his voice. He met Douglas’ eyes again. “I don’t think I can do _everything_ , though…” He sounded embarrassed, unable to precisely voice the hesitation.

 

Douglas took his hands and reverently kissed them, gentling the backs with soft strokes. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We don’t have to do anything at all.” He rubbed Martin’s arms, reassuringly. “It’s all up to you.” He could feel the captain relaxing, tension unspooling at his touch.

 

Martin took his hands, returning the kisses. “In that case –“ he looked up, shyly. “Um. Can we… go upstairs, maybe?” A rush of uncertainty filled his face and he spoke quickly. “Oh God, sorry – this is your house, I shouldn’t just ask-“

 

“Shh.” Douglas returned his thumb carefully, slowly to Martin’s lips, stopping the gush of nervous speech spilling from his mouth. “You absolutely _should_ ask. I want – _so much_ – to make you happy.”

 

The look of incandescent joy that broke out momentarily on Martin’s face took him aback completely, but it was quickly replaced by an even stronger emotion. The gaze Martin fixed upon him was so heated that Douglas half-expected to combust where he sat. “Upstairs,” he managed to croak, tugging Martin off the sofa.

 

“Upstairs,” Martin agreed, but pulled him into a long, satisfying kiss instead. Douglas thrilled as Martin’s hands moved smoothly down his back, over the curve of his rear, tugging him closely in to the younger man’s groin so Douglas could _feel_ just how excited Martin was at the prospect.

 

“God.” Douglas disengaged, breathless and dizzy, both of them panting as if they’d run a marathon. “Come on. _Now_.” Without another word, he took Martin’s hand and led him up the stairs, aware of Martin’s delighted, quiet laughter following him, a sound more welcome than any Douglas thought he had ever heard.


	21. Landing Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's first time with Douglas.

Martin trailed Douglas as closely as he could manage as the two of them pelted up the steps. Despite his chuckle, he counted them to calm himself, his heart racing in his chest. _Eleven, twelve, thirteen… landing._

 

Douglas paused at the top of the flight, seeming momentarily unsure about where to lead him. Martin caught him up and laid a tentative hand on his back, uncertain about why Douglas was hesitating. At his touch, Douglas seemed to relax a little, and he turned to face the captain.

 

“Where would you feel most comfortable? In my room, or the one you stayed in before?” Douglas looked almost… shy, and Martin felt a sudden lump in his throat at the sensitivity and concern.

 

Swallowing his gratitude, he thought the question over, quickly. “Well – can I see your room?”

 

“Of course.” Quickly, Douglas took him by the hand and led him to the left, through a door that Martin had only seen closed throughout his stay months before. “Come in.”

 

Martin stepped into the room, very aware of Douglas’ eyes taking in his reactions. The bedroom was spacious, decorated in a reasonably modern manner – magnolia paint but with dark wood furnishings breaking up the expanse of cream. There was a framed photo of Verity above the bed and – Martin smiled to see – two models, of a Spitfire and a Hurricane, on the windowsill.

 

“I’ve got one of these.” He crossed the room to examine the fighter plane, cradling it gently between his fingers, his urgent arousal melting a little into the background.

 

“You don’t surprise me.” He heard Douglas approach him from behind, his stockinged feet soft on the thick carpet. Even though he knew perfectly well who it was behind him, he felt his heart rate skyrocket in panic, and he span round, trying to control his urge to gasp for breath.

 

The agitation must have shown in his face, because Douglas looked a little troubled. Martin quickly spoke to smooth the moment over. “I’m fine.” He smiled.

 

Douglas gently took the plane from his hands, using the need to replace it on the windowsill behind Martin as an excuse to step in closer, reaching round him to deposit the small model. His other hand raised gently, carefully, to stroke Martin’s arm. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes. I just – I’m not very good at you being… where I can’t see you.”

 

“I’ll never leave your sight again.” Douglas’ strokes were firm, soothing, as he quirked a grin. The words might have been said in a teasing tone, but Martin could clearly see the nervousness and the concern in the first officer’s deep brown eyes.

 

Instead of answering, Martin slipped his hand to Douglas’ waist and tugged, closing the last few centimetres of gap between them. It was comforting to be propped up against the window, the sill digging into him a fraction where it jutted just above the small of his back. He felt Douglas’ warm, reassuring solidity pressing into the front of him, a soothing bulk that he clung to as his heart rate slowed from the rabbit-quick pulse of his flash of fear. He closed his eyes and sighed, trying to let the tension ebb away.

 

“Lean your head back.” Douglas’ voice was barely more than a whisper.

 

Martin hesitated for a second, feeling very vulnerable about exposing his neck. But he trusted Douglas – he had to try… he slowly tipped his head backwards, resting it against the recessed window.

 

The feeling of Douglas’ warm breath just above his jugular was unexpected, but he tried not to jump. Douglas hovered there for a second, just breathing, allowing Martin to adjust to the sensation, before softly pressing his lips to the captain’s pulse point for a quick kiss.

 

Martin flinched slightly at the touch of Douglas’ mouth – a flashback of a gloved hand exerting crushing pressure suddenly vivid in his brain – but then Douglas kissed his throat again, and again, so gently and arousingly that Martin’s brain went offline, the scent of Douglas’ musky cologne filling his nose and the sound of Douglas’ fevered breathing hectic in his ears. He felt completely surrounded, comfortingly encompassed by nothing but Douglas.

 

 _I should reciprocate_. He raised his arms, wound them round the older man’s back, exploring the planes of the muscular shoulders, feeling the shift of Douglas’ scapulae as his arms wrapped round Martin. He pulled their bodies so close together that there wasn’t room even for a hair between them.

 

As they enfolded each other in their arms, Martin’s hips shifted, adjusting his balance. Douglas was still mouthing gently at his neck, but at the sudden sensation of his erection rubbing into Douglas’ hipbone Martin couldn’t suppress a groan. He instinctively moved his hands down Douglas’ back to his rear, tugging the other man into him, seeking out the same feeling again.

 

Douglas was pulled in with a gasp, his own cock coming into contact with Martin for the first time since they’d been in the lounge. Martin tingled at the feel of it through their trousers, getting a proper sense of the hot bar of flesh curving against him at last. He rutted into Douglas, holding them tightly together, hearing the first officer’s breath catch as he stilled his hands at Martin’s waist, the insistent grip of his fingertips betraying his high emotion.

 

“Martin.” Douglas’ voice was half a gasp.

 

“Mmm.” Martin leaned in, capturing Douglas’ mouth in a kiss. He gripped Douglas’ arse firmly, still frantic for the pressure against him. His mounting arousal was tinged with panic, his energy almost frenetic as he strove to stimulate them both. _I have to do this. I want to do this. They can’t spoil this for me_.

 

“Martin.” Douglas’ voice was more insistent this time, muffled by their lips moving together. Martin didn’t notice that Douglas’ hands had gone slack around his waist until Douglas pulled away. “Martin, wait.”

 

“What?” Martin stopped moving, nerves suddenly flooding his gut at how serious Douglas appeared. “Shouldn’t I? I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I –“

 

“Stop, stop.” Douglas took his hand, gently. “You haven’t done anything wrong – quite the opposite – that was –“ Words seemed to fail him and he settled instead for an appreciative puff of air, squeezing Martin’s fingers. “I just – I want to make sure that we only do what you’re happy to.”

 

“I was happy.” Martin couldn’t help pouting a little, petulantly.

 

Douglas chuckled, and drew Martin over to the bed, pulling him down to perch on the edge next to him. Martin came easily, though almost tripping over his feet in his nervousness. He suddenly felt very gauche, not quite sure what was expected of him. The incipient panic that had been making his heart race dulled a little, though.

 

Douglas stroked his cheek, lightly, refocusing Martin’s attention on him. “Is there anything you don’t want me to do?”

 

Wordlessly, Martin shook his head, feeling his breathing quicken with the lie.

 

Douglas looked concerned again. “I know that’s not true, Martin.” His hand stilled on the captain’s cheek. “Downstairs, you as good as told me. You said ‘I can’t do everything’.”

 

Martin wasn’t sure how to reply. “I – um –“ he stuttered, abortively. He couldn’t find the words to answer, his erection beginning to melt away as he writhed internally at Douglas’ X-ray gaze.

 

Douglas rephrased the question, posed it again in a calm, easy tone. “Where shouldn’t I touch you?”

 

Martin blushed. He’d never been sexually eloquent, even when in the throes of passion, and the thought of matter-of-factly stating to Douglas exactly where he was terrified of being touched was anathema to him. He stalled. “It’s a reasonable question…” He darted his tongue out to moisten his lips, kissed Douglas again to play for time.

 

Douglas responded, briefly, but pulled back when Martin tried to deepen the contact. “It is a reasonable question. It’s an important question.” He lifted Martin’s chin with a finger, urging him to meet his eyes. “I’m not going to think any the less of you. Or run away. I want you to _enjoy_ this, not endure it.”

 

Martin believed him. With anyone else, he wouldn’t have trusted the answer, but coming from Douglas – he could hear the sincerity in the words. He cleared his throat, awkwardly, looked away. “I don’t want you to touch – I don’t want you to-“ Apprehensively, he stroked Douglas’ thigh, next to his own, taking comfort from the caresses, the firm muscle of the first officer’s leg warm under his hand. “I don’t want you to… penetrate me.” He squirmed in embarrassment, knowing that he was glowing red to the tips of his ears.

 

But Douglas just sighed – _was that relief_? – and nodded, covering Martin’s hand on his leg with his own. “Anything else?”

 

Martin felt emboldened by the acceptance. “Please – please keep your hands away from my throat.”

 

Douglas understood immediately, and looked worried. “Was it OK for me to kiss you – there?”

 

“Yes… it felt… nice.” That was an understatement, but Martin couldn’t find the words to describe the complex tangle of thoughts that those kisses had evoked, fear and pleasure and longing and agitation all mixed into a confusing stew in his brain.

 

“Good.” Douglas was stroking his upturned hand, now, fingertips lightly tickling along his palm. “Is there anything else you’d like me to know?”

 

Martin felt a sudden rush of intense emotion surge through him. Gratitude – devastating affection – lust – guilt – _Douglas shouldn’t have to be making these sacrifices to be with me – He’s such a_ good _man –_

 

He couldn’t express the feelings, there were too many, their intertwined-ness too inexplicable. Instead he shook his head and kissed Douglas warmly on the mouth. His cock had been stirring once more at the feel of Douglas’ hand on his. He fumbled upwards, sliding to Douglas’ shirt buttons again, this time beginning to flick them open, to feel the delicately hairy chest beneath. Judging by the deep rumble of pleasure that the older man emitted, he wasn’t averse to this course of action, and he tugged Martin close again, pressing them together sideways where they sat.

 

Martin allowed his hands to roam, exploring Douglas’ warmth, his trailing fingers mapping the lines, bumps, textures of his skin – smooth and soft at his collarbone, roughening with stubble higher at his neck… Douglas sighed with pleasure, pulling out of their kiss after several long minutes of blissful snogging, his lips reddened and shining. Martin’s eyes were drawn straight to them, imagining his own in a similar state, feeling a hot rush of arousal stream straight to his groin at the sight.

 

But Douglas was moving, and away from him – for a second Martin felt a jab of fear, but he had misinterpreted the shift. Douglas had drawn his legs onto the bed, was sliding to settle back against the pillows. He held out a hand to Martin. “Come here,” he whispered, his pupils blown huge and black with passion.

 

Martin couldn’t believe it for a moment, gulped – but then without a conscious thought his body was following Douglas’ suggestion, almost throwing himself towards the other pilot. He kicked off his shoes to the floor and settled his shoulder into the crook of Douglas’ arm, seemingly to his satisfaction - for he was instantly hugged into Douglas’ side with a force he wouldn’t have anticipated.

 

“You are _stunning_ ,” Douglas murmured, running an exploratory palm down his flank. Martin shivered, though whether at the touch or the compliment he wasn’t sure. “May I – may I-“ Douglas sounded nervous again, so unlike his normal suave self. “Can I?” He gestured towards Martin’s shirt.

 

Instead of answering, Martin sat up briefly, tugged off the white shirt he wore before he could lose his nerve. He chucked it over the side of the bed – never had the risk of crumpling it been further from his mind – and lay back down, feeling his shoulder instantly cradled by Douglas’ left arm. His eyes were determinedly closed, too nervous to look at Douglas’ face, afraid of what he might see there.

 

“Beautiful.” Whatever he’d been expecting to hear, it wasn’t that, especially not tinged with such… relief? Martin jumped as Douglas’ other hand found his stomach, beginning a sinuous stroking motion that made his every nerve-ending jangle pleasantly. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped with his sigh of breath, feeling himself get exponentially harder, increasingly uncomfy in his restrictive trousers.

 

 _I wonder – is Douglas -?_ He needed to know, had to see. He opened his eyes, gazing down Douglas’ broad chest to his groin beyond. _Thank God_. Douglas was clearly just as aroused as Martin was. The sight was beyond erotic – the idea that Douglas wanted him sending Martin’s brain into overdrive. He felt his breath beginning to come in quick pants, and before Douglas could read it as panic, he rolled even closer into him, dislodging Douglas’ hand where it had still been stroking his abdomen. He planted kisses into Douglas’ bare chest, licked at the pebbled nipples, nipped slightly with his teeth. Douglas’ hands didn’t falter, caressing Martin’s back instead, making heat course through him as he listened to Douglas’ stuttering breathing.

 

 _More. I want more_. He raised a tentative hand, held it above Douglas’ crotch, giving him the chance to say no.

 

“Yes.” The single word was fervent. “Martin, please – yes.”

 

He needed no more permission. Lowered his hand, glorying at the feel of the stiff flesh against his palm, at Douglas’ almost pained inhalation. He set up a slow rhythm, not wanting this to be rushed. He rested his head on Douglas’ stomach, watched the slip and slide of his hand over Douglas’ trousers, savouring every moment. The feeling of the quivering breaths Douglas was taking rippled through his abdomen to Martin’s cheek, allowing Martin to sense just how turned on he was. Douglas let him fondle, seconds spiraling uncounted into minutes. His own hand was still travelling smoothly over Martin’s back, one moment at his hairline, the next counting the knobs of his vertebrae, ticklish and stimulating. Up – down – higher – _lower_ – _Christ._ Martin flew abruptly apart from him with a gasp.

 

“Sorry – sorry –“ Douglas was instantly contrite. Martin was still on the bed, but had shoved himself away, back to the other side, the instinctive terror at the brush of Douglas’ hand at his coccyx enough to make his heart race all over again.

 

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, guilt twisting inside. “For a second – I thought you were headed –“ _inside me_ , were the words he couldn’t say; but Douglas understood.

 

“I wasn’t. I promise. I’m sorry.” Douglas voice was quiet, remorseful.

 

“It’s OK.” Martin was immediately ashamed, the concessions that Douglas was making to him feeling too much, too significant. _Surely he’ll leave me if I keep being this skittish_.

 

The unpleasant thought must have twitched in his face, because Douglas was cautiously sliding nearer, tugging him lightly down again, whispering soothing nonsense. “Shh. Let me.” He lay Martin back against the pillows. “Close your eyes.” His hands gently caressed Martin’s chest, tickling lightly, not unpleasantly. “Let me do this for you.”

 

Martin slid his eyes shut obediently, trying to force the tension out of himself. Douglas was still whispering, his voice very near his ear, now – Martin could feel his exhalations against his hair. “I’m here. We’re together.” The hands smoothed along his shoulders. “I’m with you. This is for you. _Nothing_ has to happen.” Warm palms, down his triceps, up his biceps. A hot, wet mouth, closing over Martin’s right nipple, just for a second, made his hips kick up in spite of himself. “Are you OK? Do you want me to stop?”

 

 _Stop? Never._ He shook his head, an impassioned negative.

 

The hands moved again, back to his stomach, rubbing circles around his navel. “You. Are. Gorgeous.”

 

Martin moaned, guilt niggling him. _I don’t deserve praise_.

 

“I can’t believe…” Douglas’ voice trailed off for a second, sounding ragged. “I can’t believe… you’re here. With me.”

 

A pleasant blush stole through Martin. “Me neither,” he whispered, the words just audible. Douglas’ fingers dipped beneath his waistband for a second on one of their circuits – intentionally or not? Suddenly Martin knew exactly where he wanted Douglas’ hand – but he wasn’t sure how to ask –

 

Instead, he tentatively grasped his wrist, stilling it. “You want me not to?” Douglas sounded understanding, instantly became motionless.

 

“No,” Martin panted. He lightly pulled at Douglas’ arm, repositioning him –

 

“Oh.” Realisation crept into Douglas’ voice. “ _Oh_.” Martin released the first officer’s wrist where it hovered above his straining cock. The feeling when Douglas instantly followed through and grasped him for the first time drove all the breath from his lungs, molten desire swirling in his pelvis.

 

“Douglas – Douglas, please -“

 

“Of _course_.” Douglas was fidgeting with Martin’s fly, finally managing to release the zip, sliding his hand inside – and then they were skin to skin, burning heat at the point of their meeting, ecstatic friction building as Douglas rubbed rapidly at him.

 

Martin couldn’t suppress an urgent whine, the sensations swamping him intense and immediate. Mindlessly, he tangled his fingers in Douglas’ hair, pulled him in for a deep, passionate kiss that left them both trembling. He could feel the pleasurable tension beginning in his upper thighs – _not yet, not yet_. Reluctantly, he reached to still Douglas’ hand, reassurance sweeping through him when Douglas instantly desisted at his light touch.

 

“I don’t want to… just yet.”

 

Douglas made an accepting noise. “Of course.” He tugged Martin more closely into him again, dropped a butterfly kiss on his cheek.

 

Martin twisted a little to improve the angle he was at, and looked deeply into Douglas’ face, still amazed to be so close to him. Douglas looked back, a little smile crinkling the laughter lines around his eyes at Martin’s heated examination. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice a rumble in his chest, vibrating Martin’s hand where it rested over a nipple.

 

By way of answer, Martin rolled further, half slinging one leg over Douglas’. He almost expected Douglas to laugh, to pull away – the insecure part of him always prepared for rejection – but Douglas instead bit his lip, ardent desire flitting across his features. Softly he tugged Martin on top of him, aligning their hips. “Is this right?” he asked.

 

“ _God_ , yes.” Martin shifted, a light movement of his pelvis against Douglas’ that made them both tighten their hands around each other.

 

“Hnnn.” Douglas closed his eyes, slid his grip downwards, gliding over Martin’s waist. “Do that again?”

 

Martin complied, feeling the heavy tension in his belly increase as darts of pleasure shot through his groin. He couldn’t remember ever being this hard – it was nearly an ache, but a gratifying one. He began to find a rhythm, Douglas’ hips thrusting up to meet his, the fabric of their trousers rubbing almost painfully.

 

“Here.” Douglas was reaching between them and Martin wondered momentarily what he was doing, but quickly understood. Douglas flicked open his own flies, pushed their underwear aside – allowed their cocks to touch for the first time –

 

The immediacy of Douglas’ hot arousal flush against his own instantly spiked Martin’s heart rate through the roof. His body associated the sensation with panic, and for a second he was terrified, screwing his eyes shut. But then Douglas moved, trying to recapture the tempo they’d found, and fear began to transmogrify into desire, the need to find release becoming paramount in Martin’s adrenaline-marinated brain. He let his head fall forward, into Douglas’ broad shoulder, sucking a kiss into the smooth skin there. Douglas’s hands moved to his buttocks and gripped, though Martin was conscious that Douglas was making a deliberate effort to keep his fingers well away from the crease of his arse – obviously making certain that Martin understood his intent. The force of the contact was reassuringly firm, guiding their hips into synchronous movement, sending delicious pulses through them both in radiating waves of ecstasy.

 

“Martin… Martin?” Douglas’ voice was hoarse as he gasped in pleasure.

 

“Yes?” Martin could barely reply, glancing up in response, a fresh gush of delight flooding him at the sight of Douglas’ face. His eyes were screwed tight shut, his mouth gaping open as he chased his release – he looked desperate, yearning as much as Martin.

 

“I’m going to – _fuck_ , you’re going to make me come – are you close?” Douglas’ usual velvet tones were rough, shredded.

 

At the thought of how Douglas’ climax would feel, hot and wet between them, Martin closed his eyes and moaned. Somewhere in the back of his brain the memory of unpleasant, warm streaks striping his chest as he screamed was stirring; but the feel of Douglas’ sturdy chest against his own was beating it back, the trembling of his hands against Martin’s buttocks the only thing he wanted to focus on.

 

“I’m close,” he managed, mumbling the words into Douglas’ collarbone.

 

Douglas sped up, thrust even more firmly against him. The dry friction was beginning to burn a little, but Martin could feel Douglas starting to come apart beneath him, shaking hard, his movements growing clumsy and uncoordinated. Douglas’ gasps became vocal, transmuting into cries that pierced Martin to his core. _I can’t believe you want me. That I’m doing this to you_.

 

“I’m coming – Christ, Martin –“ Douglas gave one almighty thrust upwards, simultaneously pulling Martin’s hips deeply into his. Martin felt Douglas’ shaft twitching between them as he shot, wetness spurting where they were welded together with the force of Douglas’ clutch. He opened his eyes to see Douglas’ face, found his head thrown back, mouth open in a rictus of bliss.

 

The sight was immensely gratifying, but the sensation of Douglas’ sticky, warm come on him had dragged the memory that Martin had been trying to suppress right to the front of his brain. _Semen – dripping down me –_ He shuddered, and as soon as Douglas’ hands loosened, he rolled away, on to his back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

 

Despite the orgasm that had only just raced through Douglas, he realized instantly that all was not well. He raised a shaking hand, lightly laid it on Martin’s arm. “Are you OK?”

 

Martin nodded. _But not really_. He wanted to come so much, but the feeling of the cooling fluid on his stomach was affecting him unpleasantly – yet to ask Douglas to wipe it off felt like an insult – he couldn’t –

 

“Here.” Douglas had grabbed a tissue from the bedside table. Quickly, carefully, he dabbed away the mess. Martin let out a sigh of relief, trembling with pent-up tension.

 

“Kiss me,” he pleaded, before Douglas could get the idea that he wanted to abort proceedings completely. Douglas chucked the balled Kleenex towards the bin.

 

“Gladly.” He complied, his movements still boneless and a little fumbly after his climax.

 

Martin struggled at first to relax into the kiss, but as Douglas lightly flicked at his lips with his tongue, he parted them, feeling the strain begin to melt out of his muscles as they sagged into one another.

 

Douglas detached himself gently, remaining within a few millimetres of Martin. “Do you want to come?” Before Martin could answer, he added, hastily, “It’s absolutely fine if you don’t. You don’t have to. Anything you prefer.”

 

Martin closed his eyes and nodded. “I do. Please…” His erection ached, protesting the lack of contact, and he moved his hand over it almost subconsciously. When he opened his eyes again, he was taken aback to see Douglas watching, his lip caught between his teeth. It was an expression of such naked desire that Martin lost his breath in amazement at it.

 

“Do you –“ Douglas swallowed, hard. “Do you want me to help?”

 

Martin’s heart raced again and saliva flooded his mouth in anticipation. “ _Please_.”

 

“ _Thank_ you.” Martin couldn’t parse the sincere gratitude in Douglas’ voice – didn’t understand the thanks – but his momentary confusion at it was obliterated as Douglas leaned forward and kissed his way down Martin’s chest, following the treasure trail of auburn hair towards Martin’s groin. He looked up for a moment, checking Martin’s response. All Martin could do was stare back, unable to even form words at the eroticism of it – Douglas’ dark, tousled head kissing and licking down to his steel-hard erection.

 

“Can I?” Douglas paused just above where the head of Martin’s cock was leaking a trail of pre-come, clearly feeling he had to ask.

 

“God, don’t stop, don’t stop.” Martin knew he sounded desperate but he didn’t care, his brain chanting a frantic mantra of _please, touch me, suck me, make me come, please, please_.

 

Douglas paused only to flash him a brilliant smile before bending to finally touch his mouth to Martin’s shaft, pressing his tongue into the slit. Martin wailed as a lightning strike of sensation spiked into his brain and balls. He curled his hands into tight fists, thumped the bed, not knowing how to respond at first to the onslaught of intense sensation – Douglas’ mouth sinfully hot and wet around his shaft, tongue now flicking lightly at his frenulum.

 

All he could think to do was to wind his hands into Douglas’ hair, to press his fingertips against his scalp. The temptation to grab Douglas' head and thrust deeper into his mouth was immense, but Martin managed to restrain himself, feeling Douglas taking him deeper of his own accord. Douglas’ warm hand was clutching lower down his cock, moving gently in time with the sucking motion of his lips, and Martin felt surrounded, held, aroused in the most ideal way…

 

His orgasm was rapidly ratcheting closer, the moist heat around his most sensitive flesh exquisite stimulation. He knew he was panting, babbling rubbish – _don’t stop, perfect, Douglas, fuck_. Douglas was moaning too, his head bobbing, hair flopping in a manner at once both comical and beautiful – Martin thought the sight alone might push him over the edge.

 

As it was, the combination of the sensation and the visual tipped him off the cliff. He barely had time to gasp “Douglas – _coming_ –“ when his climax struck him amidships, causing him to tighten his hands in Douglas’ hair and only just avoid thrusting down his throat in bliss. He’d expected Douglas to pull away – his few previous partners all had – but Douglas kept sucking, swallowing down his spurts as best he could, keeping the ecstatic tingling rippling through Martin going for as long as possible.

 

Eventually, the sucking sensation of Douglas’ mouth on him became too much for his oversensitivity, and he tapped the first officer gently on the shoulder to remove him. Martin tugged him up the bed, lying Douglas’ head on his shoulder. Sleepiness was stealing through him, lassitude making his limbs feel like iron weights, but he couldn’t drop off – not without saying – “Thank you. Thank you,” he burbled tiredly into the top of Douglas’ head.

 

“You don’t have to thank me.” Douglas was amused, but Martin thought he could detect a hint of something else in his tone. He had the crazy sense that it was relief, but that surely couldn’t be right.

 

“I do. That was…” Martin paused, unsure how to put it into words. “That was more than I’d ever hoped for. Especially after…” He trailed off, suddenly close to tears. _I mustn’t cry, I mustn’t, what’ll he think_?

 

Douglas snuggled nearer into him, lightly kissed at his chest. “For me too.” He let out a long sigh, pressed his cheek into Martin’s pectoral muscle. Martin couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read his expression. A pang of sorrow momentarily stung at his heart. _Douglas deserves more than stupid, damaged me_.

 

But Douglas’ breathing was lengthening, his body relaxing into sleep. Martin didn’t want to disturb him. Instead, he shifted a little lower in the bed, the better to prop Douglas against him, savouring the warmth of his partner in his arms, the comfort.

 

 _Tomorrow_ , Martin decided. _I’ll talk to him more tomorrow_. He drifted off, soon dead to the world.

 

* * *

 

Martin was woken by the morning light streaming through the window - neither of them had closed the curtains. He stirred, unintentionally pulling Douglas more closely into him and waking him too.

 

Douglas’ eyes fluttered open and he turned his face to gaze into Martin’s eyes. A smile spread from ear to ear across his face. “Good morning, you.”

 

Martin smiled back, warmth unfurling in his chest. “Morning yourself.”

 

“Sleep OK?” Douglas arched his back, stretching, before cuddling back into Martin’s side, stroking his free hand ticklishly through Martin’s chest hair.

 

“Like the proverbial log.” Martin really had. He’d been very worried for weeks that the first time he stayed over he might drop into his old nightmares – Anna had warned him that it might be a problem given the newness of the sexual component to their relationship – but he couldn’t remember dreaming anything. _Thank God._ It wasn’t that he thought that Douglas would be taken aback or disgusted by his bad dreams – after all, he’d seen enough of them already. It was more that Martin was so desperate for nothing to spoil their time together – didn’t want anything to put a sour note into proceedings. He wanted, desperately, for it all to have been perfect for Douglas… brilliant, loving, beautiful Douglas.

 

“Penny for your thoughts.” Douglas had been watching his face, clearly trying to guess what was passing through his brain. He looked up at Martin inquiringly.

 

Martin smiled. “Just… remembering our evening.” And he was, his brain supplying him with a stream of stimulating memories of the night before, making his cock twitch as he mentally re-ran what had transpired, how Douglas had taken him, how he’d made Douglas come…

 

“Mmm.” Douglas leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, rubbed his nose warmly into his neck. “I was having similarly pleasant reminiscences.” A pang of anxiety suddenly seemed to strike him and he added quickly “At least – I hope yours were pleasant, too?”

 

Martin nodded urgently. “ _Very_ much so.” To his surprise, they were – mostly. He just couldn’t quite shake off the guilty feeling that he hadn’t given Douglas all he deserved – that Douglas merited far more, that he should be with someone less… complicated.

 

But Douglas was smiling, his expression untroubled, and he slowly, carefully, leaned in again to catch Martin into a sensual kiss, licking lightly into his mouth, letting out a little whine of satisfaction. Martin tightened his arms around him and tried his best to relax into the contact, telling himself firmly to stop thinking, stop worrying…

 

Douglas finally broke away with a little sigh. “Breakfast? I’ll cook, if you like.”

 

Martin grinned. “Sounds wonderful.” A thought suddenly occurred. “What time is it, though? We have to be at the airfield at nine.”

 

Douglas clapped his hand to his head. “Shit. I forgot to set the alarm.” He scrambled round, releasing his hold on Martin for the first time since the night before. “8.20. We can make it if we’re quick.” He looked apologetic.

 

“No problem.” Martin swung his legs out of bed, prepared to get ready. “I’ll have to do the walk of shame in clothes from yesterday. Thank goodness my uniform means no one will realise.” He risked a wink at Douglas, feeling daring.

 

His co-pilot chuckled. “You dirty stop-out, you.” He threw Martin’s shirt towards him. “Come on, or Carolyn’ll have our guts for garters.”

 

“Wilco. You’ll have to owe me a cooked breakfast another time.” Martin grinned warmly. _I never thought the morning after would be like this. So… casual. Easy._ He watched Douglas head into the bathroom, a string of pleasingly lewd imaginings flitting through his mind at the sight of his shapely behind exiting the room.

 

 _I love this man_. The thought took him aback slightly – it wasn’t something he felt confident to voice, not yet – but it was a happy scary feeling all the same.

 

* * *

 

“Douglas?” They were in the car, speeding as fast as was legal towards the airfield, having both scrambled out of the house in double-quick time.

 

“Yes?” Douglas was concentrating hard as he overtook a cyclist.

 

“Last night was… amazing.” Martin blushed as he said the words, but Douglas was smiling, rather than laughing at him as Martin had half-feared he would.

 

“I thought so too.” Douglas reached across to stroke him gently on the knee.

 

“How would you feel about… how would you feel about letting Carolyn and Arthur know? About us, I mean?” Martin was nervous about how Douglas might react. _He still might see this as a short-term thing… I don’t know how he feels…_

 

Douglas looked happy, though. “Are you sure?” He glanced over at Martin, who didn’t reply, too edgy about Douglas’ feelings to answer. “Well, if you’re certain you can cope with Arthur bouncing all over the pair of us – and with Carolyn pretending she’s not delighted by being even more sarky than usual – then – I suppose… Yes. That would be great.”

 

Martin let out a great whoosh of relieved breath. “Are you sure?”

 

Douglas smiled again. “Yes. Nice as it’s been to have a secret with you – especially such a delightful one – it would be good to stop having to sneak around and pretend.” He snickered a laugh. “And we could stop taking your poor van’s name in vain. I know it’s clapped out but the number of times fire-crew-Phil’s been supposed to be ‘taking a look at it’ – I’m worried it’ll get offended and hate me.”

 

Martin sniggered. “It won’t hate you. I won’t let it. You’re too important.” He bit his lip, casting a nervous sideways look at the detail slipping out, unsure how Douglas might respond.

 

“Oh, good." Douglas seemed a touch startled, but flattered. "You’re important to me too.” He was beaming, to Martin’s intense relief. He reached to squeeze Martin’s leg again, sending a pleasant jolt through the captain at the affectionate touch, affirming the thought that this was the right decision.

 

Douglas pulled up and parked, both of them extricating themselves from the Lexus with all possible speed. Douglas checked his watch. “9.09 a.m.” He grinned over at Martin as they walked towards the portacabin together. “How much do you want to bet that Carolyn accuses us of fabricating our relationship just to distract attention from the fact that we’re late?”

 

Martin laughed, feeling light as air, a spring in his step. “The emmental.”

 

“The brie,” Douglas countered.

 

“You’re on.” Martin daringly leaned in, grasping Douglas’ chin for a hasty kiss which made Douglas take a quick, deep breath of pleased surprise.

 

“ _You’re_ on.” Douglas looked deep into his eyes, twined his fingers through Martin’s. Hand in hand, they stepped into the office, ready to meet their fate.


	22. Yoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin receives a letter that throws him all off-kilter.

A month later, Douglas was sitting in Martin’s attic for the first time. It had taken a long while for him to convince Martin that he really would be just as happy spending time there as in his own, so-much-posher house; in the end he’d had to make it the forfeit for Martin losing his third word game in a row (naming the most possible films with dairy products in the titles) on their flight home from Kentucky that afternoon. Martin still felt sulky that Douglas had managed to trump him at the last possible minute with such a good answer (‘Edambusters’) and his mood hadn’t been improved when Douglas named his price.

 

“Why?” he’d moaned. “Why on earth would you want to come and spend the evening in my stupid tiny room?”

 

Douglas had looked calmly back at him. “You silly thing.” He’d risked an affectionate pat to Martin’s knee, despite the ‘no touching at work' rule that the captain had insisted on carrying on even after there was no longer a secret to keep, either from Carolyn (who had greeted the revelation with a smug ‘I knew it!’) or Arthur (who’d simply said the word ‘brilliant!’ so many times it had actually made Martin dizzy and then done some sort of elated war dance around them both until Carolyn snapped sharply at him to stop it).

 

Back in the flight deck, seeing Martin shift uncomfortably again at the thought of his request, Douglas had stared straight into his eyes, sincerity ringing in his words. “Don’t you think I might like to visit your attic because it’s yours?” At Martin’s frown, he’d smiled. “It’s a part of you. And I want to see it.”

 

Martin had felt his stomach do the odd twist that he sometimes got when Douglas was being unexpectedly… soft. “Oh, fine then.” It had been a grumpy acquiescence, but an acquiescence nonetheless.

 

So for once he’d driven Douglas home in his van, nervously swiping at the dusty seat before he’d allow the FO to sit down, completely on edge all the way back at how Douglas would react to being in his house. He knew logically that Douglas had seen his room before, when he’d picked up the bag of clothes for Martin after… after… (his brain stuttered over the memory and he hastily suppressed the thought of the night after the Suspension Bridge) – but this was different. This was Douglas seeing _Martin_ in his room.

 

 _What if he starts teasing me – laughing at me_? Martin had fretted. _I don’t think I could stand it_.

 

But Douglas had walked into the dilapidated house, climbed the stairs and sat down in the saggy old chair by Martin’s bed as though it was the most normal thing in the world. He hadn’t laughed – hadn’t displayed even a hint of concealed mirth – and Martin, quite bewildered at this confounding of his expectations, had made him tea and then flopped on to the floor at his feet. He was deeply surprised and wrong-footed at the sheer, unanticipated ordinariness with which Douglas was greeting his accommodation.

 

Douglas was flipping through one of his flight manuals, idly, sipping his tea. Martin watched him, suspiciously, wondering when the ribbing might start. _Surely Douglas won’t allow the state of my attic – so small, pokey, meagre – to go uncommented on_.

 

And yet – he did. The only motion he made, once he’d replaced his now empty mug on Martin’s dresser, was to lightly bend Martin’s head onto his knee so that he could card his fingers soothingly through his hair. “Relax,” he said, quietly. “You’re so tense.”

 

Martin let out a small sigh despite his apprehension and allowed himself to sag just slightly into Douglas’ leg. His hands were still balled into nervous fists, even with the calming threading of the fingers through his curls. After a few minutes, Douglas put the flight manual aside.

 

“This is really stressing you out, isn’t it?” He sounded concerned, no note of humour in his voice.

 

Martin didn’t know how to answer. He settled for nodding, quickly, once.

 

“What is it that’s worrying you, hmm?” Douglas ran a finger over the curve of his ear, sending a shiver down Martin’s spine.

 

“I’m waiting for you to – waiting for you to laugh at me. Like you always do.”

 

“Oh.” Douglas’ finger stilled at the corner of his jaw. Martin wondered what expression was crossing Douglas’ face as he paused before continuing. “Have I ever laughed at the important things, though, Martin?”

 

Martin reached a tentative hand to stroke Douglas’ foot. “Um. Not for a long while.”

 

Douglas sounded hurt. “When have I ever?”

 

Martin groaned inside. He didn’t want to tell Douglas this. But the first officer was waiting for an answer. “At the beginning. When we first met. You – you laughed at me. All the time.”

 

Douglas pushed him off his knee, though not dismissively, Martin realized – he had immediately grasped his chin, making Martin look at him. His face was troubled. “I was joking.”

 

“You weren’t always.” Martin could still sense the raw edges inside him where Douglas had occasionally gone too far, had jabbed to hurt rather than tease. “I’m scared that – it makes me nervous that you might do that again.”

 

Douglas stood up with a growl, and Martin instinctively flinched away without meaning to. Douglas had noticed the wince – Martin knew from the flash of hurt that had contorted the older man’s face for a moment. But Douglas seemed to put that aside as he folded himself on the floor, next to his captain. “You have to understand, Martin. Back then –“ he emitted a frustrated  _tsk_ noise – “I was different. For God’s sake, _you_ were different. Look how uptight and bossy you were.” Martin opened his mouth to snap, but Douglas rushed on before he could get a word in. “Look how jealous and resentful _I_ was. I was in a totally different place.”

 

Martin closed his mouth again, confused. He felt off-balance, not sure whether to trust Douglas. He stared at the floor.

 

Douglas seemed really upset. “I’m sorry if – no, when – I went too far. But, be fair. You went out of your way to push my buttons, sometimes. It’s only human.”

 

“Like I could hurt you,” Martin scoffed. “Nothing I said or did made the slightest bit of difference to you. You laughed at me, all the time. And now you’re surprised I’m worried that it might happen again?” He tried to keep the throbbing hurt out of his voice, but the resentment of years before was suddenly right at the front of his mind.

 

Douglas appeared both angry and wounded. “That was _months_ ago. Months.” He gestured exasperatedly with his hands. “I – I – didn’t _care_ about you like this, then. And you… didn’t feel this way about me.” A touch of uncertainty vibrated in that last sentence, which seemed to fuel Douglas’ flash of ire. “Don’t try to tell me you never told me things you thought would make me irritated or tried to score points off me.” He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “You know it was two-way, the things we said.” More softly, he spoke again, after a few beats. “I _am_ sorry, Martin. But there were occasions when you owed me an apology and I didn’t get one, too. You _know_ there were.”

 

Martin wanted to argue back and deny it, but honesty forced him to stay silent. Douglas had a point. “Hmm.” He settled for a non-committal noise, examining his hands in his lap, conscious of the warmth flowing between them where their knees touched.

 

Douglas leaned forward, making Martin meet his eyes again. “You have to know. I would never, _never_ try deliberately to hurt you now. Do you believe me?”

 

Martin considered. Douglas’ eyes were steady, unflinching. There was no hint of a lie in his face – but he was a good actor…

 

“Honestly, Martin. Please.”

 

At last, he nodded, tried to smile. “I’m sorry.” He reached for Douglas, kissed his hand, a peculiarly old-fashioned gesture that somehow seemed appropriate. “You’ve proven over and over that I can trust you.” He sighed. “I just… find it difficult to believe.” He flapped his hands to gesture between the two of them. “In this.”

 

Douglas let all the air rush out of his lungs in a deep _whoosh_. “Come here.” He leant back against the chair’s foot, tugged Martin half round so that his back rested against Douglas’ broad ribs, his legs stretched out either side of Martin’s. Martin felt supported, the feeling of Douglas’ slow breaths rising and falling behind him gradually softening his sharp fear. Douglas wrapped his arms round him from behind, giving a little hum of pleasure as Martin stroked the backs of his hands where they rested on his breastbone.

 

“There is nowhere I’d rather be this evening,” Douglas rumbled, pressing a kiss into the top of Martin’s head, “than in this attic with you.”

 

Martin allowed his eyes to close, resting fully back into the other man for the first time that day, finally feeling all the tension and nerves dissipating from his muscles. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve you.”

 

“Yes, you do.” Douglas’ voice was calm, reassuring, but Martin still couldn’t believe it.

 

They sat there for a long, formless time, watching the shadows lengthen in the dingy room, as day crept into night.

 

* * *

_RAP-RAP_.

 

Martin woke with a start, jerking away from Douglas’ chest. _How long have I been asleep_?

 

Douglas’ hands fell away from him as Martin bolted upright, wobbly with dopiness. “What’s that?”

 

His voice was muzzy – he must have been sleeping, too. Martin started towards the door. “Someone’s knocking.” In his haste, he tripped over his socks, was momentarily embarrassed at his lack of grace. “Coming!” he called. He heard Douglas stretch and yawn behind him. _Who could this be_?

 

Pulling open the door, he was astonished to see Maria, the vet student whose room was two floors below. “Yes? I mean – hello, Maria.” He flushed pink, never at ease speaking to the practically-teenagers who were his housemates.

 

“Hi!” She smiled prettily at him. “I’ve got a confession to make.”

 

“Oh?” Martin didn’t know what to say, very conscious of Douglas watching him, the words _sky god sky god sky god_ running through his brain. _I must look a prat._

 

Maria was speaking, and he forced his attention back to her. “Yeah. I’m really sorry – when I got in three days ago, I picked up a bundle of letters on the doormat, and I thought they were all for me. And then I got upstairs and threw them down, because I was trying to deal with all the clobber I’d brought back from my rotation at the stables, and I forgot about them till now. And it turns out that there’s something here for you.” She held out a white envelope.

 

“Oh.” Martin took it, looked at it curiously. Post – at least, post that wasn’t bills or the odd postcard from his family – was exceedingly rare. “Thanks for bringing it…” His stomach plummeted through the floor. _Latvian_.

 

She’d obviously spotted the expression on his face, dread creasing his brow. “God, sorry. Was it something really urgent? I’m so sorry –“

 

“It’s fine.” He tried desperately not to babble, knew his shoulders had flown up, defensively. He heard Douglas stand up rapidly behind him, feeling a frisson of panic at the thought that there was a _man_ to his back that he couldn’t see – “Thanks. It’s fine. Thanks. Bye then.” He closed the door in her face, cutting off her bewildered, quick ‘goodbye’ before she had a chance to complete the word.

 

He whirled round, hearing Douglas approach, attempted to calm his breathing. He could see the acute concern in Douglas’ face. “What is it? What is it, Martin?”

 

He tried not to let his voice waver. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.” He cleared his throat, trying to come up with a coherent thought to express, failed. “Fine. Fine.” He was shaking, he knew.

 

Douglas was right in front of him, tentatively reaching to grip his shoulders, trying to see whether that would help him or just distress him more, he presumed. “You’re OK. You’re OK… What’s going on?”

 

 _Inhale. Exhale._ He held out the envelope to Douglas, who looked down at it. “Oh,” he said quietly, absorbing the sender details. “It’s from Juris, I take it?”

 

“Or his office.” Martin pulled away from the first officer, stumbled towards his bed, holding the envelope away from him by just one corner, as if it were on fire and about to burn him.

 

Douglas pivoted, following him with his eyes. “Are you going to open it?”

 

Martin couldn’t speak. Just nodded as he flopped on to his futon. He placed the letter next to him, knotted his hands in his lap.

 

Douglas came and sat by him, silently. They were both still – for a good five minutes, Martin guessed. But he couldn’t bring himself to touch the gaudily stamped paper.

 

Eventually, Douglas broke the tension by offering “Do you want _me_ to open it?”

 

Martin was surprised by the trickle of mild relief that flowed within him in response. He jerked his head in assent, and Douglas reached over him to grab the envelope, taking the opportunity to give Martin’s leg a reassuring squeeze on the way.

 

He ripped the seal open, drew out the sheaf of papers from inside. Martin tensed as he scanned through the detail of the contents.

 

At long last, Douglas spoke, voice quiet and serene – as though Martin was a spooked horse that he was trying to soothe. “It’s from Juris. To let you know that there’s now a date for the sentencing.” He paused to allow Martin to absorb that information before continuing. “There's something he'd like you to undertake.”

 

At this, Martin turned in a blur of speed to face Douglas. He felt tears suddenly overflowing in spite of himself, his voice shaking. “Do I have to go back? Do I have to go back?”

 

Douglas’ face was pale as he recognized Martin’s anguish. He wrapped a comforting arm round his shoulders. “No, no,” he soothed. “Not if you don’t want to.”

 

Martin sniffed, shame coursing through him at the thought of Douglas witnessing his distress, _again_. “What do – what do I have to do?”

 

Douglas gave his shoulders a squeeze, stroking the top of his arm. “He says that, as the victim, you have the right to submit an impact statement.”

 

“What’s that?” Martin hated how childish he sounded, his voice small, clutching Douglas’ leg as if he feared he was about to run away.

 

“You can write something that describes the effect of the crime on you. The judge takes it into consideration when dealing out the sentence. Juris says he can read it out to the court on your behalf if you’d rather not attend in person.” Douglas folded the letter again and placed it on the bedside shelf. He pulled Martin into a proper embrace. “Are you OK? Do you understand?”

 

Martin nodded, trying to control his whirling thoughts. He was rigid in Douglas’ arms. A violent tremor shook him, nearly dislodging the other man.

 

“Shh.” Douglas stroked his shoulders. “Shh.”

 

Martin knew that he should have been calmed by Douglas’ presence, the care he was being shown. But all he could think of was the three perpetrators of his assault, the experience he’d been through, the nightmares and the horror and the crippling fear that he’d lost a vital part of himself completely… All the progress he’d made since the attack suddenly seemed small, as easy to obliterate as a house of cards – insubstantial enough to be dissipated by a puff of wind.

 

He looked up blindly, sought Douglas’ mouth with his own. He kissed him, desperately, for the first time finding no comfort in it. Douglas responded, trying to slow the pace of his panicky contact – but Martin suddenly wanted him _off_ , this was wrong, too much…

 

Carefully, he wriggled free of Douglas’ embrace, placing both hands gently on his chest and pushing him away. Douglas shifted, reluctantly releasing him, and Martin stood, running his hands distractedly through his hair. The expression on Douglas’ face was anxious – it seemed that he didn’t know what to say.

 

He cleared his throat, catching Martin’s fractured attention. “I’ll help you write it, if you want?” He got up too, quickly, surprising the captain and making him shy backwards. From reaching for him, Douglas’ hands abruptly fell to his sides, the same wounded look flitting over his features as earlier in the evening. Martin felt his heart give a painful stab. _He’s sacrificing too much…_ the same thought that had repeatedly tormented him since their first time in bed together.

 

He didn’t know what to do except to wave his hands, knowing he was about to fall apart. “Please – just go.” He couldn’t bear to have Douglas witness him shattering. To think about going through all the effects of the rape again, have the grimy details of his cowardice, his distress, his defencelessness read out in public – it was making him dissolve into a thousand agonised fragments.

 

But Douglas now looked even more hurt than when Martin had flinched away from him, Martin realized – though his features hastily smoothed into a bland, neutral expression. “Are you sure? I’m happy to stay if it would help.”

 

“It wouldn’t.” Martin’s heart felt like someone had tied a knot in it, stopping feeling flowing through his core, a sharp ache piercing him. “Please – please go.”

 

“OK.” Douglas gathered up his jacket, walked to the door. Martin followed him, distractedly, something in him still drawing him to the FO - two magnets, tugged close by involuntary attraction.

 

Douglas heard his approach and turned. For a second, hope flared in his face as if he thought Martin had changed his mind – but as soon as he caught Martin’s eyes, the optimism died.

 

Softly, he pulled Martin’s head towards him, seeking out a goodbye kiss. Normally kissing Douglas was something that Martin couldn’t get enough of – he had to restrain himself constantly from leaning in and exploring Douglas’ mouth – but now, he couldn’t get away fast enough, bestowing a mere peck before snatching himself backwards and out of reach.

 

Douglas’ eyes were glossy, Martin realized, a powerful twinge of guilt besetting him – but before he could say anything to correct things, Douglas was gone, a subdued ‘bye’ just audible from the landing. Martin groaned and flung himself at the futon, grief and terror and shame bubbling inside him, a witches’ brew of misery cauldroning away that he couldn’t contain. He buried his head in the pillow, and when he finally fell asleep, hours later, it was damp beneath his face.

 

* * *

 

The week that came after passed in a blur, as far as Martin was concerned. He became vaguely aware that Carolyn’s eyes were following him worriedly whenever he was in the portacabin; that Arthur was bringing him extra tea and coffee at any opportunity, in a futile attempt to cheer him up; and that Douglas… Douglas…

 

Douglas was by his side, all week. In the flight deck, obviously – he had to be, and in the office, their desks were adjacent. But he wouldn’t let Martin go home alone, was driving him everywhere in his Lexus, asking him every single day to stay the night with him. At the first instance of this request, Martin had tensed up so hard and fast around the yoke that GERTI had made a sudden dip in the air, but Douglas had hastily added that he had meant the spare room, if that was where Martin was comfortable – “no ulterior motive, I promise”.

 

Martin had accepted, mainly because he knew Douglas would be terribly unhappy were he to refuse – but the third night, he’d woken from a nightmare, screaming, to find Douglas standing, anguished, by the bed. Something in him had snapped and he had yanked Douglas in beside him with such ferocity and desperation that Douglas had let out a cry of surprise before climbing swiftly under the duvet, cuddling warmly next to him.

 

And then fear had flooded his centre – _what if Douglas thinks I want him_ _to – to fuck me_? He had never felt less aroused – just wanted to be held, comforted –

 

But Douglas, _wonderful_ Douglas, had understood – had pressed him close, spooning him, his tall frame encompassing Martin top to bottom, until Martin fell back to sleep – hitching breaths softening into drowsy snuffles. It had been perfect.

 

Until the next morning. Which is when Martin had awoken, and without registering a conscious thought had flung himself so far forwards, away from the hardness of Douglas’ erection sticking into his back, that he’d fallen out of bed with a loud _thump_.

 

Douglas had awoken with a snort of shock. Martin realised dimly that Douglas hadn’t been pushing for anything – hadn’t even been _conscious_ , for heaven's sake – but panic and shame swamped him and rather than try and sort it out like an adult, he’d simply fled, locking himself in the bathroom, turning on the shower full blast, and pretending not to hear Douglas’ worried calling of his name outside the door.

 

They hadn’t spoken about it again, though Douglas continued to insist he slept at his house, Martin now only agreeing out of swirling dread that if he refused then Douglas would surely leave him, he was being so useless as a boyfriend. Evenings were awkward, the closeness and mostly easy intimacy that they had found in the preceding weeks completely absent – and they were now sleeping exclusively apart. It was all was totally different to the preceding month, when they’d been becoming increasingly inseparable.

 

Martin didn’t know what to say to mend things, and neither, it appeared, did Douglas – twice more he offered to help Martin to write his statement, and each time Martin queasily refused. When he’d come to stay, he’d found a few sheets of A4 paper and some pens newly placed on the small desk in the corner of the spare room; he knew Douglas was trying to be thoughtful, to provide him with everything he could possibly need, but it just meant that every time he fled to his room, the blank pages stared accusingly at him – both a reminder that he hadn’t yet written the spiel about his emotions he was so terrified of revealing and also – more painfully, even – that he was throwing all of Douglas’ kindness and solicitude back in his face.

 

At last – after a week – Douglas asked him flat out. They had just executed a tricky landing back at Fitton, fighting a gusty spring crosswind all the way down, and for once, Martin felt fleetingly pleased with himself. Douglas’ question tugged him unpleasantly back to reality.

 

“Have you written it, yet?” His voice was kind – _still_ – Martin couldn’t quite believe it after how coldly and strangely he knew he’d been behaving towards him since receiving Juris’ letter.

 

He shook his head, wanting to reach for the FO, but something preventing him.

 

“You have seen the deadline, yes?” Martin didn’t answer, feeling the dread twist its barbs within him again. Douglas continued, sounding reluctant but determined. “You have to post it tomorrow if it’s going to get there in time.” He finished by hastily adding “Please don’t think I’m interfering, love.”

 

Martin’s eyebrows shot up. It was the first time that Douglas had ever called him anything except ‘Martin’ or ‘Captain’ – or ‘you silly thing’, for that matter. Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t think you’re interfering. You’ve been – you’ve been wonderful, this week.”

 

Douglas let out a sigh of relief, and Martin felt deeply guilty. So many of his thoughts had been focused on the statement he had to write, he hadn’t really let himself consider Douglas’ worry too frequently. Douglas’ exhalation sounded as if he’d been letting go of some terrible anxiety.

 

“I’m so sorry. I’ve been horrible to you,” Martin mumbled. _When was the last time I kissed you, even?_

 

Douglas shook his head. “You don’t need to apologise. I know what a difficult time this must be.” Rapidly, as though needing to get it off his chest, he carried on, “And I’m _so_ sorry about the other morning. In bed. I didn’t mean to –“

 

The cockpit door crashed open, stopping him in his tracks before he could finish. “Right then, drivers.” Carolyn eyed them both beadily. “Are we done in here? I want to go home.”

 

“Still need to do the shutdown checks.” Martin noticed Carolyn’s surprised start at his speaking. _That might be the first time I’ve volunteered to a sentence to her this week_. Again, guilt needled at him.

 

“Well, hurry up. Herc’s taking me to see Madame Butterfly tonight.” Carolyn’s tones were less shrewish than sometimes, an additional sign that Martin’s behaviour lately had made her anxious, much as she hid it well. She left, calling to Arthur using her most sarcastic inflection as she went. “Quickly with that hoovering, light of my life.”

 

Martin began to make the final checks, but jumped as he felt Douglas’ hand settle warmly on his shoulder.

 

“Tell you what. You do that statement as soon as we get home. Get it finished, and sent, and it’ll be out of your life for good.” Martin looked up, saw him smile, gently. “And while you do that, I’ll make you that lamb and apricot thing you seemed to like so much and we’ll eat it afterwards. Together.” The hand on his shoulder tightened, reassuringly. “How does that sound?”

 

Martin shivered. “Good.”

 

“Good.” Douglas echoed. “It’s a plan.” He bent his head to the console, finishing up the checks Martin had started to complete. Martin studied him amazedly, secretly, from under lowered eyelids.

 

 _What have I done – where did I go so right – as to end up with_ you _?_

 

* * *

Martin sat at the desk in the spare room, pen poised to begin writing. He pressed the ballpoint so hard into the page that he worried he might dent the wood. _How do I begin_?

 

He could hear Douglas clattering about in the kitchen below him, the reassuring noise of him singing along to the radio downstairs soft in Martin’s ears. He sighed. _Make a start somewhere - anywhere_. Tentatively, he began to write.

 

_I landed in Riga on June 18 th, 2013, with my co-pilot, Douglas Richardson and our cabin crew – Arthur Shappey and Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, who also owns the company –_

 

No. That was irrelevant detail. Screwing up his forehead, he drew a line through the last sentence, and started again.

 

_I landed in Riga on June 18 th, 2013. I didn’t know it yet, but that was the day that my entire life would change forever…_

 

Tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth in concentration, he continued to write, words flowing on to the paper like water from a tap. Albeit like a tap with some air caught in the pipes at times – there was the odd stutter and crossing out, but he was away and scribbling – sentences forming as if an alien brain was providing them.

 

_I can’t describe the pain of what the three of them did to me – not just the physical agony, but the incomprehensible humiliation, degradation of being forced into that position…_

_Nothing I did invited that attack – I may have been tipsy but all I wanted was to find my first officer…_

_In the weeks following the rape, I wanted to die – I was ready to end it all. Only my co-pilot coming to find me stopped me from jumping off a bridge…_

_It has taken me more than six months to even begin putting my life back together again, and only the help of my friends – particularly my first officer - has made it possible…_

_I still find being touched a terrifying thing and now flinch away from almost all physical contact…_

_The nightmares after the assault plague me to this day – my partner, Douglas, is woken regularly by my screams and I can’t describe how humiliated this makes me feel…_

_My rape affects every part of my day to day existence – particularly how I relate to Douglas – I find it really difficult to be close to him, to give him all he deserves from me in our relationship..._

_Those three men have come very close to ruining my life with their aggressive, selfish, despicable act – I just desperately don’t want to let them..._

_I will survive, but as a different person to the one I had been – was meant to be._

Martin wrote steadily, not noticing time ticking away. He didn’t remark that tears were staining the paper in places, making the ink run. He just kept writing, the poisonous emotions leaching out of him, feeling his shoulders shake, his fingers white round the pen.

 

* * *

 

“Hello.”

 

Douglas’ head flew up in surprise as he stirred the casserole at the stove. Martin’s approach had been nigh on silent. He swiveled rapidly round. “Hi.” He took in Martin’s ashen face, the fact that he had pulled on one of Douglas’ big old pullovers for comfort not lost on him, judging by the quick flick of his eyes. “You – are you alright?”

 

Martin didn’t answer, instead crossing the kitchen at speed, almost flinging himself into Douglas’ arms. He felt the older pilot hastily encircle him, hugging him close, and nuzzled into his shoulder.

 

“Did you – did you manage it?” Douglas’ voice was uncertain.

 

Martin nodded, pressing still closer into his arms. “I’ve done it.”

 

“Anything I can do?” Relief was palpable in Douglas’ tones.

 

“Just – please – can you hold me, for a bit?” Martin felt himself blush, ashamed of being weak.

 

“Just let me put this spoon down.” Douglas leaned back, depositing the ladle that had been dripping sauce on to the lino. Martin didn’t release him as he leant, just held on as if for dear life. Douglas steered the two of them gently into a kitchen chair, pulling Martin into his lap, stroking his hair. “Well done, you’ve done it, you’ve done it,” he murmured quietly, gently.

 

Martin sniffed. _I will_ not _cry._ Douglas’ arms around him were the most soothing thing he could imagine, just then.

 

After a few minutes, the gentle, firm strokes of Douglas’ hands on his shoulder blades had worked their magic. The agony had faded a little, to be replaced with something that he hadn’t felt ever since he’d received that sodding letter – arousal, the first stirrings of it beginning to tickle at him. It was being surrounded by the musky scent of Douglas, feeling his nose burrowing comfortingly into his neck… He let out an involuntary whine, shifting in Douglas’ lap.

 

“What is it?” Douglas responded immediately. “Oh!” Martin had turned his head, caught Douglas into a heated kiss. The sound of surprise quickly switched into a hum of cautious pleasure.

 

Martin raised his hands, threaded them both through Douglas’ hair, tugging lightly, feeling the first officer’s tongue caressing lovingly at his own, sending darts of warmth to his groin. He was getting hard, he knew…

 

With a small gasp, he pulled back, looked searchingly into Douglas’ face. “Thank you,” he sighed, kissing the tip of Douglas’ nose, feeling the other man’s hands running warmly over his back.

 

“What for?” Douglas sounded confused, breathless from their passionate kiss.

 

Martin didn’t know what to say. “For cooking. For having me to stay…” He paused, unsure whether to continue. “For the last seven or eight months. For taking care of me…” He kissed Douglas again, tongues entwining, growing aware that Douglas was shifting uncomfortably beneath him. “Are you OK?”

 

“I’m fine.” Douglas looked flushed, shuffled in the chair beneath Martin again.

 

Martin was puzzled. _Why is Douglas moving away from me_? And then, he felt it, an accidental nudge from Douglas’ wriggle. _Oh_. Douglas was just as hard as him, and trying to hide it. In one smooth, sinuous motion, Martin slid from Douglas’ knees to kneel at his feet, not taking his eyes off his face.

 

“What are you doing?” Douglas sounded panicked.

 

Martin’s heart was beating hard in his chest. _I owe you_. He leant forward, placed a hand over the bulge in Douglas’ jeans –

 

Douglas stood up with a sudden intake of breath, taking Martin by surprise. “No.”

 

“No?” Martin couldn’t keep the bewilderment out of his voice.

 

Douglas stepped shakily backwards to lean against the worktop, leaving Martin feeling confused and idiotic, folded on to the floor.

 

“You don’t have to,” Douglas said, voice wavering.

 

“I – I know I don’t _have_ to.” Martin slid forwards, following Douglas, reaching for him again. “I _want_ to.” He leaned up, unzipped Douglas’ fly, allowing his cock to slip free – _Christ_. Douglas hadn’t been wearing underwear.

 

Douglas greeted the touch of Martin’s hand on his shaft with a bitten lip and an apparently involuntary twitch forward with his hips. Martin felt a momentary surge of triumph that temporarily overshadowed the fear battering at his brain at being so physically submissive in front of another man – even if the man was Douglas… He bent in – extended his tongue to lick –

 

“ _No_.” Douglas’ voice was definitive, this time, his erection already wilting away before Martin’s eyes. He tugged Martin to his feet, to his shock. “Please, no. Don’t.”

 

Martin felt rejection shake through him like an earthquake, rocking him to his core. “Wh- why?” He knew he sounded plaintive, lost.

 

Douglas drew him back into an embrace. “I just – I don’t want the first time you do _that_ to me to be tonight.”

 

Martin was stiff in his arms, trying to ignore the relief he felt that he was back on a more even playing field, physically, now that he was standing up again. “I – I wanted to.”

 

Douglas clutched him, reassuringly. “I know – but I want the first time – to be associated with something happier… more pleasant than that awful letter.”

 

Martin groaned. _My stupid-victim-status strikes again – ruining everything._

 

Douglas set him back on the chair, turning back to his stew. “Come on. This is nearly ready. Hungry?”

 

“Mmm.” Martin couldn’t summon up a more eloquent response. He felt small, guilty. Even the soft kiss that Douglas brushed on him a few minutes later as he set a plate of his delicious lamb concoction before him didn’t improve his mood. _I owe you everything_. Writing the report had made that clear to him, as if it hadn’t been already – every paragraph was full of Douglas, memories of the comfort and support he’d provided vivid in his brain. _How can I ever repay you_?

 

Martin didn’t hear much of what Douglas was chatting to him about over the meal. He was too busy, brain whirring. _How can I return the favour? How can I show you just how much it’s all meant_?

 

And then inspiration struck, apparently from nowhere. _Aha_. He grinned in victorious elation even as he felt his heart trip in fear. He’d just need to lay in some supplies…

 

He raised his head, interrupted Douglas mid-sentence. “Would you – would you like to come round to spend the night at mine, tomorrow?”

 

Douglas looked utterly taken aback. “What?”

 

“Come and stay.” Martin made his voice as insistent as possible, even went so far as to bat his eyes as flirtatiously as he could, feeling a bit of a fool.

 

“Err... Of course I will. If you want.”

 

Martin stood up, went to kiss him once more, pulled away before things could get heated. He smiled, ignoring his racing pulse. “Good.”

 

 _Just need to prepare…_ He kissed Douglas again, nervy anticipation flooding his guts. Douglas had never looked so confused. _Never mind. He’ll soon see how much he means to me – he’ll be so grateful_ …

 

* * *

The next day, Martin had managed to make all his preparations. Luckily, Maria was in that night – she was happy to do him a favour in recompense for the mistake with the letter. She’d agreed to show Douglas up when he arrived so Martin could lie in wait – literally.

 

It had been good, in a way – he’d managed to post the letter first class to Latvia on his way to go shopping. The distraction of what he’d set out to buy stopped him obsessing about dropping it in the letterbox – the combination of dread and nerves twisting within him all related to his plans for Douglas that evening rather than the sentencing.

 

And now he was all ready – and just needed Douglas.

 

As if on cue, he heard Maria’s voice interspersed with Douglas’ deeper baritone. “Do go up. Martin’s in his room,” she said, cheerily, words clearly audible through the thin walls.

 

“OK…” Douglas sounded almost as confused as he had the previous evening. Martin heard his heavy footsteps start up the stairs, feeling his stomach clutch in nauseated anticipation. He took deep breaths to calm himself, reminding himself sharply that this was all for Douglas – was what Douglas deserved to enjoy –

 

The bedroom door swung open. Douglas was silhouetted against the landing light, the bedroom pitch dark. “Martin?”

 

“I’m here.” Martin tried to make his voice sultry, inviting.

 

“Why are you in the dark?” Douglas simply sounded baffled. “What’s going on?”

 

“Come in, close the door.” Martin’s voice was shaking with trepidation that he wasn’t quite managing to master. _Douglas. This is all for Douglas. You_ owe _him_.

 

Douglas did so. “Can I put the light on?” He seemed intrigued as well as puzzled, now. “Is everything alright?”

 

“The switch is to your left.” _Good. My voice was calmer that time_. Martin tensed, hearing Douglas fumble for the light. He clenched his fists, trying to focus on the excited surprise he was about to hear from Douglas –

 

 _Flick_. Douglas had found the dimmer, had clicked it on. Martin got a brief glimpse of his sturdy back, strong arms, before his first officer turned round to take in the sight before him. Martin realized his own face looked scared – tried instead to smoulder – or smile, he wasn’t sure which…

 

He wasn’t prepared for the anguished cry that Douglas emitted on taking him in, a piercing yelp of distress. Martin’s head flew up, the panic he’d been barely suppressing suddenly rampaging through him. “What is it?!”

 

Douglas staggered two steps towards him, dropped the bag he’d been carrying. “Who did this? Are _they_ here? They – you –“ His mouth was opening and shutting, his face grey, eyes filled with panic.

 

Martin felt nausea sweep through him. _This wasn’t how this was supposed to go_. Frantically, he yanked at the cuffs he’d bought, trying to disentangle himself from where he had chained himself to the bed, failing utterly in unlocking the new leather from his wrists. “No, no, no,” he babbled, trying to reassure, liquid dread coursing through him at the sight of Douglas’ expression. “It’s for you – it’s all for you –“

 

“For _me_?” Douglas’ voice was an incredulous squeak as he trembled visibly.

 

Martin finally got a hand free, bent to unbuckle his feet – “I wanted – I wanted to make you happy –“ He was flying on wings of pure terror, horror – it had all gone so wrong –

 

“ _Happy_?” Douglas cried out, a sound of acute pain that stabbed through Martin like a knife to the gut.

 

He was still fidgeting desperately at the cuffs when Douglas turned swiftly on his heel and fled from the room, leaving only a clearly audible sob in his wake. Martin finally wrenched his second arm free, but he was still bound by one foot… couldn’t escape…

 

He gave up. “Douglas!” He almost screamed the word after him, aware that Douglas must be halfway to the front door, now. “Douglas! Douglas! Douglas!”

 

 _Fuck_. Tears streamed unheeded down his face. “DOUGLAS!”


	23. Escape Chute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas' reaction to Martin's attempt to please him.

Douglas fled down the stairs, stumbling blindly towards the front door. He tripped over slightly on the threadbare hall carpet, bashed himself forcefully on the wall, hurting his wrist; but the pain only registered dimly in his mind. The mental agony exploding in his brain was far worse.

 

He wrenched open the door, hurled himself into the cool air of the front garden, panting as though he’d run a race. Distantly he could hear yelling from the window above him – _Martin’s attic_ – he dropped to his knees, caught between two warring instincts: to run and not look back, or to return to the house in response to the hysterical cries he could hear behind him. He felt paralyzed and torn to pieces simultaneously – unable to budge from his ignominious position, slumped on the unkempt grass of the front garden – unable to decide what to do –

 

“Douglas!” Martin, closer this time – he was coming…

 

Douglas hauled himself to his feet. Martin’s voice was painful to hear – he sounded distraught. And yet Douglas could rarely remember feeling so _furious_ – how could Martin _do_ that to him, how could he? Breathing hard, he turned to face the captain, clenching his fists by his sides.

 

“Douglas!” Martin’s tones were just as desperate as before, yet tinged with slight relief at catching up with him. He stumbled to a halt a few paces away, his tear-streaked cheeks shining a little in the glow of the fading evening sun. He looked ghastly. “Douglas, I –“

 

Douglas didn’t let him finish. “How _could_ you? How could you do that to me?” His words trembled with rage, and Martin flinched. The wince triggered a fresh flood of anger within Douglas at the memory of all the times Martin had cringed away on instinct since they’d been together. “Jesus Christ. You recoil at the slightest hint of a threat from me, and yet you chain yourself to the sodding _bed_?!” He had raised his arms to gesture in agitation, and Martin skittered back a few steps. “How could you think that I’d want that? How could you put yourself back in that position again?” Fury blazed through him like a wildfire, burning, out of control.

 

“I – I –“ Martin gulped compulsively, his hands raised as if to fend Douglas off. “I didn’t – I wanted –“

 

“ _What_?” Douglas roared, unable to contain himself. The fear he’d felt on glimpsing Martin, bound and trussed, was still fluttering wildly in his brain, like a sparrow trapped behind a closed window, hurling itself at the glass.

 

“I thought – I wanted to repay you – for everything –“ Martin was choking on sobs, now, more tears pouring down his face.

 

“Repay me?” Douglas was bewildered, the logic not making any sense to him.

 

“You’ve been –“ sniff – “so wonderful. I just wanted – I just wanted to show you how much you meant to me –“

 

“By recreating your _rape_?” Douglas remembered just in time to whisper, his words spat out in a venomous hiss of ire.

 

“No – no –“ Martin’s eyes flew wide as he staggered a step towards Douglas again. “I thought – I thought – I was _depriving_ you, all this time. Of what you really… you really wanted…”

 

Douglas’ voice was soaked in baffled wrath. “Me? Want _that_? When have I _ever_ indicated that – _that_ – is what I’m after from you in this relationship?”

 

It was Martin’s turn to look confused. “But I thought – I assumed –“ He stared at Douglas. “When you saw the video…” Trepidation suddenly swamped Douglas’ heart in a sickening surge. “I was… restrained, in that. And – and you – part of you – seemed to…“ Martin’s voice trailed away, nervously - “…like it.”

 

Martin gasped as Douglas reflexively half-raised a fist, not thinking about his actions, only wanting – momentarily – to hit, to hurt. The impulse was gone almost as soon as it crossed his mind, and he yanked his arm back as if scalded; but Martin had stepped away with such haste that he’d slipped, landing on his backside on the grass with a painful _thump_. He was staring up at Douglas with an expression of complete terror, his breath coming in pants of fear. Douglas had never, never wanted to see that expression on Martin’s face again, especially not with him as the root cause of it – but he was so _angry_ , so humiliated, so guilty –

 

Trying to moderate his voice, to hide his turmoil, he said, flatly, “The video.”

 

From his position on the floor, Martin nodded. Douglas could see him trembling.

 

Douglas took a deep breath in an attempt to control himself, flattened his palms to his side. Martin stared up at him beseechingly. Douglas finally trusted himself to speak again, despite the ongoing churning of feeling inside. In emotionless tones, he repeated “The video. I see.”

 

He turned on his heel, and walked swiftly to his car, leaving Martin on the ground behind him.

 

* * *

 

Douglas drove for ten minutes in blind rage and grief without really remarking where he was going. He dimly registered the movement of other vehicles near him, slowed down or sped up as speed limits altered, but really he could no more have pinpointed where he was headed than fly without GERTI. A roaring, desperate nothingness was flooding his brain, making it impossible for him to form a coherent thought. Absently, a part of him contemplated stopping outside a pub he passed, but the idea was a fleeting one; before he could even process it, the inn was a mile behind him and he was out of Fitton on a country B-road leading towards the next town.

 

It wasn’t until he tried to change down a gear to negotiate a sharp bend that he really felt it for the first time – agonizing pain, shooting through the wrist he’d bumped in the hall, acute enough even to penetrate through his heartache. Swearing, he yanked his hand away from the gearstick, unable to complete the shift; the car was coasting in neutral, now.

 

Fortunately, a gateway to a farmer’s field was coming up on his left; clutching the wheel one-handed, he jerkily steered in, pulling off the road and coming to a halt. He stared at his wrist as if it didn’t belong to him and remarked detachedly to himself that it had swollen to nearly twice its usual size. He tried to close his hand round the handbrake, but pulled away with a gasp – now he was aware that the pain was there, he could suddenly appreciate just how crippling it was.

 

 _Great. There’s no way I can drive anywhere_.

 

He was stuck. Abruptly, he let out a shout of frustration that was so loud that three sheep that had been grazing nearby darted off with bleats of fear. Something about their blind terror reminded him of Martin – bolting away before even stopping to consider what they might be running from. Reacting on pure instinct. _Martin_. His heart gave a painful throb of mingled longing and horror and anger, his brain still ranting a stream of _how could you how could you how could you?_

 

He’d clenched his fist at the sight of the sheep, causing his wrist another stabbing bolt of pain. First things first – he needed someone to pick him up, that much was clear. His brow creased – this was going to mean owing someone a favour, unless –

 

Douglas pulled his phone out of his pocket. Six missed calls, all from Martin. Two texts. He couldn’t think about it, not now, too scared of saying something finite, un-take-back-able. Using his non-dominant right hand, he awkwardly manipulated the touchscreen, scrolling to the phone book. Luckily, the name he wanted was right at the top of the list. He dialled.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi, Arthur.” He could hear the resignation in his own voice.

 

“Douglas? Are you OK?”

 

He hastily explained the situation – at least, enough to convey to Arthur that he’d hurt his arm and needed fetching – that it would be a big help. At those magic words, he could practically hear Arthur swelling with pride, and – thankfully – the steward didn’t even stop to ask why he hadn’t called Martin first. Douglas heard him grabbing his car keys and setting off, calling a hasty ‘bye!’ down the phone as he started the engine.

 

With a sigh, Douglas settled back in his seat. He’d just have to wait. Who knew how long it would take Arthur to find the right gateway?

 

Idly, he watched the sheep in the nearby field, wondered about reading Martin’s messages – as the idea occurred, he felt the vibration of a third text arriving. Just the thought of looking at anything from Martin at that moment sent another sick wave of distress through him. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t.

 

He fixed his gaze on the sheep, instead. Even then, a memory of Martin – covered in goose droppings, drenched from the rain, clutching the stuffed Finn McCool III – was the first thing to lodge itself in his brain.

 

 _Poor Captain Crieff_. The next thought was the instinctive pity he’d felt that day – Martin had looked both frantic and beaten, aware that the universe was wreaking some freakish, undeserved vengeance on him, yet _again_. And then – he saw once more the incredulous grin that had shot across Martin’s face when he, Douglas, had produced the magic solution to his conundrum with the practiced ease of a conjuror finding a rabbit in a top hat.

 

That was how he wanted to feel – the eternal fixer, always the man with an ingenious plan, anticipating the stunned gratitude of the beneficiaries of his cunning largesse. Not like _this_. As if he were at the root of all of Martin’s pain and confusion – the problem, not the solution. He didn’t know how to solve this. Hadn’t got the first idea.

 

* * *

Half an hour later, Douglas heard the light _crunch_ of Arthur’s beaten up Ford Ka pulling into the stony gateway behind him. He swung his door open, cradling his aching arm against his chest. Arthur was already out of his seat and striding towards him, looking a bit worried.

 

“Hi.” Douglas knew that his greeting was quiet, sad – not like him at all. He just couldn’t bring himself to pretend.

 

“Douglas? What’s happened?” Arthur reached him, concerned hazel eyes taking in his awkward posture.

 

Douglas tried to shrug it off. “I tripped in the hall. Didn’t realise I’d hurt my wrist until I got this far.” Arthur frowned, and Douglas rushed on before the steward could ask _how_ that could possibly have happened – he really didn’t feel like sharing his distress with the world’s most Tigger-ish man just then. “I think I need to get checked over. Could you give me a lift to A &E?”

 

“Of course.” Arthur helped Douglas stand up, making the first officer’s pride smart briefly at the indignity. “There’s actually a car park a mile down the road – we walk Snoopadoop round here, sometimes. Would you like me to leave your Lexus there?”

 

“Sounds sensible.” Douglas passed Arthur the keys. “Can I wait in your car?”

 

“Sure.” Arthur hopped into the driver’s seat, unable to restrain himself from an excitable grin. “Leather seats? _Air conditioning_? Brilliant!!!” He strapped in. “I won’t be long. I never thought you’d let _me_ drive your car.”

 

Douglas forced himself to smile back as Arthur pulled away, grinding the gears slightly. He didn’t care about the car. It was the lack of any kind of a solution to the situation with Martin that was still occupying his brain. Even the throbbing soreness in his arm wasn’t really at the forefront of his considerations – he still felt too angry and hurt to focus on it.

 

He slumped into Arthur’s aged vehicle with a sigh. _What on earth can I do_?

 

* * *

 

It seemed to take an age for Arthur to jog back up the road, but at last he returned, looking pink-faced and a little out of breath. He slid into the car and grinned at Douglas. “All parked!”

 

“Thanks.” Douglas idly noted the flash of concern that flitted across Arthur’s features at how dead his voice sounded.

 

“Is it really hurting? I’ll get you to the hospital as fast as I can.”

 

Douglas attempted levity, feebly. “I’d settle for as safely as you can, please.”

 

“Righty-ho!” Arthur patted the dashboard as if the Ka were a horse he needed to encourage. “Off we go then.” He pulled away, turning the car round.

 

A few minutes into the journey, Douglas became aware that Arthur was casting subtle glances across to him. At first, he tried to ignore them, but eventually the recurrent sidelong twitches became impossible to block out. He groaned. “What is it, Arthur?”

 

Arthur had the grace to blush slightly. “Are you OK?”

 

“I’m fine. Wrist aside.”

 

There was a slight hesitation, but then – “Are you sure? You don’t seem… fine.”

 

Douglas didn’t answer. He wanted desperately to deny the steward’s suspicions – knew he _could_ make him stop asking – but… well, hadn’t Arthur once said that Douglas could talk to him, if he wanted help? Though Arthur would hardly have been his first choice as an advisor, at least Douglas knew for certain that he’d never make fun of him or belittle the situation. And hadn’t Martin (Douglas felt his heart flip at the thought of Martin’s name) confided that Arthur had actually really helped him, just after – just after – _No._ Douglas swatted the remembrance of the attack aside.

 

Arthur was continuing. “Is it really only your wrist? Only – when I went on that course in Ipswich, they said that –“

 

Douglas interrupted him before he could get into his amateur-psychology-focused stride. “I’m not fine, no.”

 

The steward sounded momentarily triumphant. “I knew it!” He looked a little sheepish. “I mean – I’m sorry. Anything I can do?” He was pulling in to the hospital car park.

 

Douglas shrugged, regretting the motion when a stab of pain zapped up his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

 

Arthur appeared utterly astounded. “ _You_ don’t know what to do? You?!”

 

“Alright, alright,” Douglas responded, tetchily. “No need to rub it in.”

 

“Sorry.” Arthur found a space, switched off the engine. “Would you like to tell me about it? I mean – I don’t suppose I’ll know what to do either, if you don’t, but… I want to help.” He smiled warmly at Douglas, surprising the first officer; an unexpected wave of gratitude at the kindness washed through him.

 

He sighed. “I don’t know if I can explain very well.”

 

“That’s OK. I don’t always – err, ever, I suppose – explain things very brilliantly.”

 

“No.” Douglas remembered their last trip through customs, the combined agony and hilarity of Arthur trying to explain to the officers that he wasn’t trading professionally in Toblerones, that he really _did_ want nine of the large ones for his own personal consumption… He cleared his throat. “OK. I’ll try and tell you about it. But let’s go and get booked in, first – we may as well be in the waiting room as out here.”

 

The two of them walked over to Casualty, Douglas’ step feeling unexpectedly a trifle lighter, though with his phone’s unread messages still burning a hole in his pocket.

 

The staff registered him at reception and then the two of them took a seat in a quiet section of the waiting area. Douglas was aware that Arthur was watching him, still looking awfully concerned; he supposed that he must appear upset. The tumult of the evening was all too much – he couldn’t hide it as he’d have liked to.

 

He took a deep breath before beginning. “I was at Martin’s.”

 

Arthur immediately became even more apprehensive. “Is he alright?”

 

Douglas waved his good hand. “I – he’s – he’s OK. I think.” A throb of concern distracted him, the worry for the captain he hadn’t even remarked on beneath his rage surfacing for the first time.

 

 _I left him on the floor… Oh God._ But at the memory of Martin’s face, guilt and fury spilled over again. “He – we had a fight.”

 

Arthur wrinkled his brow. “What about?” Seeing Douglas flinch, he added hastily “If I can ask, I mean.”

 

“You can ask.” Douglas stared at the floor. “He – um…” _How can I explain?_ “He did something he says he thought I’d like – except… I didn’t like it.”

 

“What sort of thing?” Arthur probed, surprisingly gently for such a usually overwhelmingly bouncy and enthusiastic man-child.

 

“A… hmm…” Douglas flushed scarlet. “A… bedroom thing.” He reminded himself that Arthur was a grown adult, had had relationships of his own. It was never something he’d _ever_ imagined discussing with Arthur Shappey – but he needed to talk about it so desperately.

 

Arthur nodded, thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you like it?”

 

Douglas cleared his throat, still couldn’t look at him. “It was too much like – that is, it reminded me… It…” He couldn’t finish, but Arthur – amazingly – guessed where he’d been going.

 

“Of what you’d seen in the video?”

 

Stunned that Arthur had followed his thought patterns so exactly when he couldn’t even retain the phonetic alphabet, Douglas jerked his chin in assent. “It was just like – that film. All over again. I don’t know how he could do it – he – he – “ Douglas looked straight at Arthur, needing him to understand _why_ he was so distressed. “He’d _chained himself to the bed_. Just like those men did.” A strong shudder ran through him, and to his eternal shame, his voice trembled. _Him_. Untouchable, unflappable Douglas Richardson. He felt utterly humiliated.

 

Arthur’s face was distraught. “Oh no,” he said, softly. “No wonder you were upset.” He paused, seemingly to allow Douglas to compose himself, before speaking again. “What did you do?”

 

Douglas blinked. “I… ran off. Shouted at him.” The beginnings of a hot drip of shame slipped across his synapses. _Martin’s face…_ He spoke quickly, trying to excuse himself, to justify his reaction. “I was so, so -“ He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “… _Frightened_. God. For a second I thought – I thought that _they_ were there. Somehow. That they’d tied him up all over again. But then he said that he’d done it to make me _happy_.” He made a noise of utter disgust. “Happy. Can you imagine?” _Of course he can’t. He doesn’t know how I reacted to the video the first time_. Degradation swamped him, and the floor swam before his suddenly damp eyes.

 

“Oh, Douglas.” Arthur sounded almost as troubled as Douglas felt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He reached out and patted Douglas’ good arm, uncertainly. “I’m not surprised you took it badly. What did Martin do, when you got upset?”

 

Douglas winced. “He looked terrified. Panic-stricken. I’ve never shouted at him like that before – it was just – I couldn’t –“ He broke off with a huff of distress.

 

Arthur opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, a nurse in scrubs appeared at the other end of the room. “Douglas Richardson?” she called.

 

“Come on, Douglas.” Arthur stood. “Let’s get you seen to.”

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Douglas and Arthur finally left the A&E department. Douglas’ wrist – thankfully sprained, rather than broken as he’d feared – was splinted and already felt much more comfortable. They hadn’t had a chance to talk any further, being shuttled from triage to X-ray to junior doctor to registrar – but as soon as they’d been shown through to the cubicles, Douglas had been unpleasantly, instantly reminded of the last time he’d been at Fitton General. The night that he’d discovered everything. The night that he’d taken Martin into Casualty to report the incident – had heard him being examined… _God, will it never end? Will I never get away from this?_ And then he’d felt even guiltier. If _he_ felt like that, how must Martin feel?

 

Uncharacteristically nervously, he voiced the thought to Arthur as they got into the car again – was taken aback when Arthur nodded immediately. “I’d been thinking that. It made me wonder – well – I expect I’m wrong. But if what Martin did this evening made _you_ feel this bad, what must it have taken him to do it in the first place?”

 

Doulgas looked confused. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well – I probably _am_ wrong.” Arthur looked unsure. “But if it upset you this much and you only _witnessed_ the attack – then – unless Martin actually likes – um – bondage-y stuff – then… well, he must have gone through an awful lot to try and do something he thought you’d want. He must have felt terrible, inside. But he did it anyway. For you. Even if he was wrong about what you… like.” He fell silent, Douglas’ brain whirring over the words.

 

“I don’t think he does like… bondage-y stuff, as you so eloquently put it.” Douglas pondered as Arthur started the car up. “I mean – he still pulls away from me at the slightest hint of me being physically imposing, or startling…” The memory of the previous night flashed across his brain. “I mean – yesterday – he tried to kneel in front of me to –“ He blushed scarlet, thanking the stars that Arthur was looking at the road, rather than him. “Well, you can probably guess why.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “But you should have seen his face as he knelt – I thought – I thought he was going to faint, he went so white and frightened-looking.”

 

“What did you do?” Thankfully Arthur didn’t sound embarrassed, just concerned. It was the most grown-up Douglas had ever heard him be.

 

“I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t want him to do anything to me looking like _that_. I want – I want it to be pleasurable, not a way of me torturing him.” Douglas tugged his hand frustratedly through his hair. “But you should have seen his face – it was like I’d slapped him. And then –“ Clarity suddenly burst in his brain like a flare exploding. “And then – God. That’s when he invited me over for tonight.”

 

“He feels guilty.” Arthur sounded unusually certain.

 

“ _Christ_.” Douglas didn’t know what to do. “Oh, the stupid – the stupid -“ He wanted to cry. “He doesn’t need to – doesn’t have to –“

 

“Douglas.” Arthur’s voice was abnormally soft. “You need to talk to Martin.”

 

“I know. Oh God, I hope he’s OK – can you drop me at his house, please?”

 

“Of course – it’s this way, right?”

 

“Yes – just a mile further.”

 

They drove on, Douglas’ mind whirling. _Please let him be alright. Please let him be alright._

 

* * *

 

“He’s not in.” Douglas jogged back to Arthur’s car, frantic concern beating a tattoo in his brain. “The student who answered the door said he went out, looking terrible, two hours ago.” He wrung his hands, ignoring the soreness in his splinted wrist.

 

“Have you had any messages from him?” Arthur looked almost as worried.

 

In the blur of treatment and his fading anger and growing anxiety, Douglas had forgotten his missed calls and messages. “Of course!” He pulled out his phone and swore. The battery was dead. “No, no, no…” He rammed it ferociously back into his pocket. “Arthur – can you take me home? I need to charge it.”

 

“Get in.” Arthur swung the door open for him.

 

* * *

 

The drive across Fitton seemed to take forever. Douglas anxiously shifted from side to side, willing Arthur’s ancient car forwards. Any trace of Arthur’s habitual bounce and cheerfulness had disappeared, and he was leaning forwards in his seat, overtaking where even Carolyn might have thought twice about doing so.

 

At long last, they pulled up outside Douglas’ house. He unbuckled his belt. “Thanks.” He didn’t know how to express his gratitude; he wasn’t accustomed to being the one needing to do the thanking.

 

Arthur shook his head. “It’s nothing. Do you want me to wait here?”

 

“Yes please.” Douglas was halfway out of the door. “I’ll just grab my charger – read these messages –“ He left the sentence unfinished, urgency impelling him onwards to jog to his drive, grab his front door keys – but wait. What was that, huddled on his doorstep?

 

Douglas squinted at the dark, hunched shape. There was almost no moon, and the sky was overcast – he strained his eyes in the blackness. Abruptly he knew himself for a fool. “ _Martin_.” He gasped the word when he’d intended to shout it. Why was the captain slouched like that?

 

He ran to the doorstep, feet loud on the gravel, fearing the absolute worst. _I left you, I’m so sorry, please be OK_ –

 

The slump against the wall was explained once he reached the house – Martin appeared to have fallen asleep, leaning against the porch. Douglas could still make out the tear tracks down the captain’s cheeks even in the dim light, and his heart rate spiked in pain. He had to make this right. But first –

 

As quietly as he could, he crept back to the waiting vehicle. He spoke softly through the window. “I’ve found him, Arthur. He’s here.”

 

Arthur gave an enormous sigh of relief. “Fantastic!” His face clouded. “Is he OK?”

 

Douglas nodded. “I think so. I’ll take him inside. No flight tomorrow, at least – I’ll make sure he’s alright.”

 

“I’ll leave you two to it. Let me know if you’d like me to give you a lift back to your car.”

 

“My car?” Douglas had completely forgotten about his Lexus in the worry and fear for Martin. “Oh, yes. Thanks.”

 

“Anytime!” Arthur’s voice was bright, a return of his usual, cheery self. He moved to shift into first, to pull away, but Douglas stopped him – despite the need beating in his heart to get back to Martin.

 

“Wait.” Arthur looked up, surprised, as Douglas spoke. “I really mean it. Thank you. For everything.” Douglas cleared his throat uncertainly, still unused to openly expressing appreciation. “Including – including the advice. God help me,” he finished on a mutter.

 

Arthur smiled. “Look after Skip. You’ll be OK.”

 

Douglas gave a terse nod, embarrassment making him taciturn. Arthur _had_ helped, more than he probably knew, but Douglas felt so uncomfortable acknowledging his weakness in needing assistance in the first place... Quickly, he turned back to the house, hearing the Ka’s engine belch a complaint as Arthur drove off. He walked hastily up the drive, his heart twisting anew at the sight of Martin’s huddled figure.

 

_What do I say? What on earth do I say?_

 

Douglas knelt down next to him, noting the exhaustion pervading the tear-stained face, even in sleep. Martin looked agonized, the normal relaxation of rest totally absent from his features. Douglas reached forward with his uninjured arm, lightly brushed a ginger curl from his lined forehead. “Martin?”

 

Martin stirred, whimpered a little as he came back to consciousness. Douglas let him awaken slowly, carrying on lightly stroking his forehead and cheek as awareness gradually dawned. “Douglas?” Martin sounded confused, disbelieving.

 

“I’m here.” Douglas cupped Martin’s face with a broad palm, smoothed away the moisture from his cheeks with his thumb.

 

“Oh. Douglas…. _Oh_.” Martin appeared to be struggling not to cry again.

 

“Shh.” Douglas bent down on impulse, kissed him gently. “It’s OK.”

 

Martin sniffed and flung himself forward, embracing Douglas tightly. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” He carried on whispering apologies into Douglas’ shoulder whilst Douglas petted his back soothingly. Slowly, some of the tension drained out of them both, and at last Martin lapsed into silence, his hitching breaths the only sound in their ears amidst the midnight silence of the upmarket neighbourhood.

 

At last, Douglas leant back, reluctantly pulling away. “Come inside?” He stood, extended his good hand to help Martin up.

 

Martin nodded. “’K.”

 

* * *

 

The two of them wandered into the kitchen, Douglas gravitating towards the kettle through force of habit. It wasn’t until he turned round to offer Martin coffee that he noticed that the captain was limping. Instantly, concern flooded his mind and he fled back to Martin. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

 

Martin looked up, surprised. “No –“ He took another step, and winced. “Just – a bit blister-y, I think.” He sank into a kitchen chair and sighed with relief. “I walked here. My van wouldn’t start.”

 

“You walked –“ Douglas couldn’t process it. “Three miles? In your work shoes?” He knelt at Martin’s side, gingerly slid off the black leather, feeling Martin flinch at the release of pressure round his foot. “Why? Why?”

 

Sounding surprised, Martin responded. “Well – I had to find you.” 

 

Taken aback, Douglas didn’t know how to reply. He patted Martin’s foot, awkwardly. “Stay here.” He stood and went to the sink, running a washing up bowl full of warm water in which to soak his poor captain’s aching feet. It was when he went to pick it up, though, that he realized the problem with his plan. “Ow!” A sharp stab of an ache made him jerk his arm back where he’d tried to heft the bowl.

 

“Douglas?” It was Martin’s turn to sound troubled.

 

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing…” But Martin had leapt to his side, was cradling his splinted limb gently in his fingers, giving a hiss through his teeth.

 

“What’s this?” He was agitated. “Douglas. What have you done?”

 

Douglas tried to wave him away, airily, forgetting that – of course – that would make him wince again. “It’s fine. Just a sprain.”

 

Martin shook his head. “It’s not fine. How – when…?” He seemed unable to decide which question to pose first.

 

“Sit. Please.” Douglas guided him back to the chair, Martin carrying the washing up bowl of water to place on the linoleum floor. He knelt again at Martin’s feet, beginning to slip off his socks. “I just tripped, that’s all. It'll be better in a week or two - don't worry. Arthur took me to A&E to get my arm looked at.” He omitted to mention that he’d hurt himself in Martin’s house, knowing the flood of remorse that that would bring on.

 

“Arthur?” Martin sounded confused.

 

“Yes, well, I couldn’t drive…” Douglas tailed off, letting out his own noise of concern as he absorbed the sight of Martin’s reddened, sore feet beneath the cotton. “Oh, _Martin._ ” He gently lowered them into the warm water, hearing Martin whine softly in mingled discomfort and relief. “Let me get some TCP to put in there.”

 

“No.” Martin leaned forward, gripping his shoulder gently to stop him leaving. “I’m fine, like this.”

 

Douglas looked up at him, equal worry reflected in both their faces. Suddenly, the peculiar comedy of the situation occurred to him, and he burst into helpless laughter, to Martin’s puzzlement. “What? What is it?” Martin still sounded fretful.

 

“Sorry,” Douglas wheezed, humour and remaining anxiety mingling in his chuckles. “It’s just – look at the pair of us. _Honestly_.”

 

Martin considered for a moment, then sniggered, briefly. “We do seem to have made a mess of this evening.” He stroked Douglas’ hair, almost nervously. “That is – _I_ seem to have made a mess.”

 

Abruptly, the mood was serious again. Douglas looked up, still luxuriating in the feel of Martin’s soft hand against his scalp, his anxiety notwithstanding. He shook his head slowly, reaching his good hand to Martin’s thigh to stroke him. “It’s not just you. We’ve both been – that is – we –“ He sighed. “We should talk.”

 

Martin looked afraid, but resolute. “I agree.”

 

Douglas stood, cringing as the renewed movement hurt his wrist. “Come into the lounge? Are your feet alright for that?” He grabbed the kitchen towel for Martin to dry off on.

 

“Sure.” Martin stepped free of the bowl. Before he could reach to do it himself, Douglas was there, stooping to pat him dry. The gesture had a curious feeling of anointment about it, the detached, academic part of his brain remarked – almost Biblical in its implications of service, of hospitability – devotion.

 

Martin’s hand drew Douglas gently upwards. “Come on.” He led them through to the lounge, a tiny part of Douglas thrilling, despite everything, to see Martin so comfortable in his home.

 

They sat down on the sofa, side by side, Douglas immediately twining his fingers through Martin’s and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He looked up, almost shyly, to meet Martin’s eyes. Now they were here, he again didn’t know what to say.

 

Martin broke the silence. “So.” He looked straight into Douglas’ eyes, let out a shaky breath.

 

Douglas echoed him. “So.” He kissed Martin’s hand again, remorse twisting his insides. “I’m – I’m so sorry. For running away. Leaving you on the ground.” He gave a heavy sigh. “That was… unforgivable. I feel awful.”

 

Martin hushed him, gripping fiercely at his hand. “No, no. _I’m_ sorry.” His eyes filled again with unshed tears. “I – I didn’t mean – Douglas. You have to know. Please believe me. I thought that I was going to make you happy. I wanted so much to please you – no matter what it cost me to do it – and it – it took me a lot, not that it matters…” A knife of dreadful hurt again sliced at Douglas’ brain. Martin carried on, his voice desperate, pleading. “I was obviously wrong, completely wrong. But you have to believe I only wanted to please you, not – not _wound_ you.”

 

Douglas stroked his hand. “I do believe you.” Martin made a noise of relief, but Douglas continued before he could interject. “But _you_ have to believe _me_. That – that video?” Martin nodded, nervously. “That video represents the very, very worst thing I’ve ever experienced. I can’t stand – can’t bear – anything that reminds me of it.” Douglas pulled away, covered his eyes with his good hand to try – futilely – to conceal his terrible distress. “Seeing you – bound to the bed – well… It was like falling into one of my nightmares…” He stopped before he began to sob, breathing hard.

 

Martin leaned into him, whimpers of anguish choking quietly from him. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” He gently drew Douglas’ hand from his face, deep brown eyes meeting the green. “I should have asked. Shouldn’t have assumed.”

 

Bitterness flooded Douglas’ tones. “It was a reasonable assumption. You knew that when I watched it originally, I... came. Of course you would think I’d like… what you did.” He tried to bite back the animosity before Martin could assume it was directed at him, rather than reading the self-recriminatory truth. “You have to understand. You forgave me so quickly, in Riga, I never managed to properly explain.” A gush of incredulous gratitude, again, at the memory of Martin, pardoning his terrible disgrace - betrayal.

 

He stood, scrubbed his fingers through his hair, paced the room. “Seeing that video – I don’t know if I can properly unpack _why_ it affected me… that way.” He gestured fruitlessly, ignoring the twinge of his wrist in motion. “I really don’t… often… watch porn. And I felt so powerful, thinking I was getting the better of _Gordon_.” The name spat out in a venomous punch of breath. “And – God help me – your body –“ He flung a pleading look at Martin, who shuddered lightly, but kept watching him. “- which of course I didn’t know was _your_ body. I believed it was an actor, a paid actor…”

 

“I know, I do believe you -” Martin interjected, but Douglas held up a hand to stop him, needing to finish.

 

“I didn’t mean to come. I didn’t. But I’ve always been terrible at resisting temptation, and – bloody hell – it had been so long since I’d let myself think about _men_ that way –“ Douglas’ stomach turned in revulsion at the memories of Martin’s attackers. “I just… it wasn’t the bondage. Or the domination. Nothing about that kind of thing has ever appealed to me, personally. And now it absolutely _never_ , never will, that video made sure of that.” He stepped back to the settee, sat down next to Martin, who instantly reached to stroke his arm, trying to alleviate his distress. “It was the – taboo, I suppose. And the fact that something in me finds you devastatingly attractive, even when I didn’t know it _was_ you.” Martin made a soft noise of disbelief, which Douglas hushed. “I do.” He cradled Martin’s cheek with his uninjured hand. “A hundred, thousand times more now, of course. But even then… And I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” His voice broke a little. “I can never take it back – what I did. I can take revenge on Gordon, of course – in fact, I already have an idea as to how I – we – are going to pay back what he’s done.” A satisfied, vindictive glint shone in his visage momentarily - Martin looked curious in spite of his worry.

 

Douglas wouldn’t let himself get side-tracked, though, his face returning to its fretting expression. “But all the retribution in the world won’t cancel out my hideous mistake. That’s why I ran away and left you on the ground, unpardonably. Because you’d reminded me – without meaning to, I know – of everything that’s worst in me, that I’m most ashamed of…” Tears spilled over in spite of himself, and he marvelled as Martin reached to wipe them away, his soft fingers caressing Douglas’ face. “Can you understand?” He looked pleadingly at his co-pilot - partner...

 

Martin nodded, leaned in to kiss his forehead, Douglas closing his eyes at the tender gesture. Martin spoke. “I can understand. Better than I have before.” He took his hand gently away from Douglas’ cheek. “That can’t have been easy for you to say.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll try to be just as courageous – to explain to you.” Douglas nodded, trembling inside, flinching from the unpleasantness even as he yearned to figure out Martin’s thoughts.

 

“I can’t apologise enough.” Martin’s voice shook. “I can understand why it upset you so much, now… But – I need you to see _why_ I did it. In the first place. Despite how hideous it made me feel, to do it at all. Pointlessly, as it turns out, but still…” He took a shuddering breath. “I feel – that is… _please_ don’t tell me it’s stupid.” He looked pleadingly at Douglas, who shook his head, urged him to continue with a silent press of his hand. “I feel as if I’m short-changing you, constantly. That I need to redress this terrible imbalance between us.” He rushed on before Douglas could interrupt. “There are so many things I can’t – won’t – do for you, with you – so many times I know I hurt you by flinching away… I know you deserve better.” Sadness filled his voice. “I don’t know why you’re bothering to be with me. In Riga – what _they_ did – I keep telling myself I won’t let them spoil things in my life, but – what if they have? What if that’s it, now? If this is all I am? Even after I haven’t got the sodding sentencing hanging over me, waiting to hear all the time how long they’ll be put away for?”

 

Douglas could feel his own heart breaking as Martin carried on. “That’s not fair on you. I want – all I want is to make you as happy as you manage to make me. But how can I, when I’m still mending? Or when I might _never_ mend?” Martin’s anguished eyes burned into Douglas’. “I – I shouldn’t be selfish. I should give you up.”

 

Douglas froze, ice forming in his guts. “ _No_ ,” he gasped, grabbing at Martin as if he was about to run away that minute. “No.” He shook his head, violently.

 

Martin echoed his dissenting movement. “No, Douglas. I – I don’t think I can ever –“ He flushed and looked away, crimson staining his pale cheeks. “I don’t know if I can ever let you… penetrate me.”

 

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Douglas shook him, gently. “ _That’s_ what this is?”

 

Martin looked confused. “Well – yes.”

 

Giddy relief swamped Douglas in a rush. “You – we –“ He cleared his throat. “I don’t _want_ that from you.”

 

“You don’t?” Martin was eyeing him, mistrust evident in his gaze.

 

“ _NO_.” Douglas shook his head, vehemently. “It’s not the be all and end all. I’ve done it once or twice, in the past, at university. And it was fine. But nothing I can’t live without, there are so many other things – other ways to be... intimate. I hadn’t even thought – it hadn’t crossed my mind – that that was what you thought I was missing out on.” He cleared his throat, wondered how honest to be. “To be frank…” he was suddenly scared again. “… after seeing – them – hurt you, there…” Tears threatened to overflow once more. “I don’t think I could. I mean – if it was what you wanted, I’d try, I’d do anything for you, anything. But it’s not something I can imagine asking you for.” He waited nervously for Martin’s reaction.

 

“Oh.” Martin let out a shuddering exhale. “But – there are other things – I’m so nervous, skittish around you –“

 

“But I know why. I know it’s not personal, and I never take it that way.” Douglas pulled Martin into him, clutching him in a tight hug. “I completely understand. And I think that – gradually, of course – I’m prepared for it to take months, or years – or however long – that your skittishness, as you put it, will improve. I _know_ you trust me.” He felt Martin nod against his ribs, drawing comfort from the warm pressure against his side. “Can I tell you how special that makes me feel? How privileged?” He bent to look deep into Martin’s eyes. “I’m not very good at talking about this stuff. I’m still British. And a man.” He was encouraged by the smile briefly quirking Martin’s lips. “But there isn’t a day that goes by since you kissed me in Riga that I don’t feel like the luckiest person in Britain. Let alone Fitton. There’s nothing – _nothing_ – that you ever need to repay me for. Ever. You must never, never think that again. Please, Martin. Please.” He injected all the earnestness he could into the statement, desperate to be believed.

 

Martin had quaked at his words, shaken by some deep emotion Douglas couldn’t name. He leaned up, meeting Douglas in a passionate kiss, running his fingers through his hair and pulling him heart-stoppingly close. “Douglas,” he murmured, lips moving softly against the older man’s mouth.

 

“Mmm.” Douglas responded, wrapping himself even more closely into Martin, twining their limbs round one another. He broke free, gasping, passion crackling warmly through his core. He met Martin’s eyes, saw the unconditional adoration he craved shining back at him. “Martin – I – I -” He knew he could say it, knew it was true. “I love you.” Sincerity resounded through every syllable, and he saw Martin’s face transform – delight – incredulity - adulation…

 

Before the captain could reply, he kissed him again, feeling cool fingers running ticklishly up his spine, electric tingles shooting through them both. He traced the curve of Martin’s ear, thrilled to his little moan. Martin suddenly shifted, straddled Douglas’ lap, leaning down into his mouth, kissing him as if the world was about to end – urgent and adoring all at once. Martin managed to speak, at last. “I love you too. Have done for months. I love you. I love you.”

 

Douglas felt as if he was about to fly apart again, but this time with joy, not horror or fear. Martin was moving rhythmically in his lap, both of them rubbing together, the transition to sexual excitement smooth and effortless. Douglas knew he wouldn’t last long, the emotions filling him head to toe too impassioned to grant him stamina – but judging by Martin’s quivering, ecstatic gasping, he wasn’t far off either. Douglas reached for his shoulders, pulled him into a kiss even as he fumbled at both their flies, hindered by the splint – Martin helping him draw their cocks out to stroke together.

 

The heat built and built, the room silent but for their mingled intakes of breath and occasional groans at the sensations shooting through them. Douglas felt as if he was on fire again, something in him burning out of control, but this time sending euphoria blazing to every cell of his being. He whispered a sensuous fist up their coupled shafts, relishing the feel of Martin shaking against him as he started to come.

 

“Douglas – _Douglas_ –“ Martin’s breath was fevered, uncontrolled, and Douglas’ hand was suddenly coated with his warm, wet release. The feeling only drew his own balls tighter and he sped their joined hands on his cock, using Martin’s come to slicken his grip. He opened his eyes, finding Martin staring deep into his gaze, delight and adoration still apparent in his face. “Douglas,” Martin whispered once more, brushing a kiss to his nose, drawing slightly back. “I love you.” He meant it, Douglas knew he meant it –

 

“ _Grhhh_.” Douglas came with a growl, blissful, perfect feelings bursting like a firework inside. The climax shook him inside out, Martin’s words ringing in his ears. “I – I –“ He gasped, unable to form a coherent sentence. “I do. I do,” he blurted, feeling Martin collapsing into him, drawing his arms up to hold him tight, heedless of the mess. “I love you.” It felt as if he couldn't say it enough.

 

And Martin was looking up at him, steadily, trustfully meeting his gaze. “I believe you.” Wonderment and conviction filled his expression. “I believe you.”

 

Douglas couldn’t ask for more than that.


	24. Final Approach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas hasn't finished with Gordon - and Martin hasn't heard the last from Juris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this has taken an age - I wanted to get it as good as I possibly could. So several drafts later - here you go - with an epilogue as a little bonus too.

Nearly a month later, Martin woke up early, blinking at the watery sunlight creeping through the blind that loosely covered his skylight. He rolled on to his side, wondering for a moment why he couldn’t move his arm, until he looked to his right and saw Douglas’ sleeping face lying next to his on the pillow. The first officer's body was trapping Martin’s limb where they’d fallen asleep cuddled together. A smile twitched to his lips at the sight – Douglas was so delightfully close to him, due to the ¾-size double that his landlord had decreed would be sufficient in the small attic room. It barely fitted them both – for once Martin was glad he was so slight – but it did have the advantage that it nudged the pair of them into distinctly welcome proximity when Douglas stayed over.

 

As Martin gazed across, the shifting sunlight danced over Douglas’ forehead, sending glints through his fringe, illuminating all the small wrinkles and minor imperfections that the captain adored in his partner’s face. He took the opportunity just to observe, drinking in the so-much-appreciated sight before him. _Mine_. Loving possessiveness filled him, and for a fleeting second, he thought he might burst with it.

 

But then Douglas stirred, his eyes flickering open, almost as if Martin’s scrutiny had awakened him. Martin wrapped both arms round him, drawing him even nearer. “Morning.”

 

“Hello, you.” Douglas’ voice was husky with sleep, but he smiled.

 

“Sleep OK?”

 

“Really well, thanks.” Douglas leaned his head forwards, dropped a light kiss on Martin’s nose. “And you?”

 

“Fine.” A frisson of anxiety twitched within the captain. “You’re sure the mattress wasn’t too uncomfy?”

 

Douglas stretched, lazily. “Not at all. Even if it _had_ been –“ He bestowed another peck, this time on Martin’s forehead. “- waking up with an armful of you would be more than adequate compensation.”

 

Martin breathed a sigh of relief. “Phew.” He grinned. “Although I think, technically, at the moment it’s me that has an armful of _you_.”

 

Douglas quirked a playful eyebrow. “Is that so?”

 

In a move so rapid Martin couldn’t quite work out how he’d done it, Douglas rolled them over, so that it was his arms encircling Martin instead of the other way round.

 

Martin laughed. “I stand corrected.” He got his revenge by capturing Douglas into a kiss, parting his lips with his tongue to slide warmly inside, feeling Douglas’ arms tighten round him in response.

 

They kissed, lazily and languorously, for a long time, just enjoying the nearness, luxuriating in each other’s presence. Martin allowed his hands to roam, tracing the little knobbles of Douglas’ spine, feeling the shift and flex of his scapulae beneath his skin as Douglas’ hands stroked his back in reciprocity. He felt surrounded, protected – the two of them in their own warm cocoon under the duvet.

 

At last, Douglas pulled back, dropping one last kiss on Martin’s smiling lips. “Hmm.” He cuddled Martin close, appreciatively. “That was lovely.”

 

“Wasn’t it?” Martin moved his hand up, beginning to twist his fingers lightly through Douglas’ hair, a manoeuvre he knew Douglas adored.

 

Douglas’ eyes slid shut in satisfaction, and he reached to lazily draw Martin’s leg over his under the covers. “I love you.”

 

Martin bumped their noses together softly. “Love you too.”

 

“Live with me.” Douglas kissed him, but Martin had frozen.

 

“What did you say?” His brain stuttered, unable to take it in.

 

Douglas opened his eyes, gazed into Martin’s. “Live with me.” The request was quiet, but firm enough for Martin to be certain he meant it sincerely.

 

Martin drew back, cautiously. “W-why?”

 

Douglas’ forehead creased. “Because I love you, you silly thing.”

 

Martin sat up, hugged his knees through the sheets. He felt Douglas’ hand gently stroking his thigh. “No one’s ever asked me a question like that.”

 

“You don’t have to give me an answer now.” Douglas kissed his arm, the only part of Martin he could comfortably reach from his recumbent position. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”

 

“Really?” Martin looked down at him, uncertainly.

 

“Of course.” Douglas smiled. “I just – I love waking up with you. And going to sleep with you. And my house is too big and quiet when you’re not there.”

 

“Poor Douglas, with your too-big house.” Martin saw the look of mild relief in Douglas’ face at the return of his teasing tone. He bent and kissed the FO, indecision still gripping him. “We’d better get up if we’re going to make it to the airfield on time.”

 

“Aye aye, captain.” Martin turned to get out of bed, but Douglas caught his wrist lightly to prevent him for a moment. “Just – please think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

 

To put off an answer, Martin wriggled back down and snogged Douglas until they were both breathless. And until they really were going to be late.

 

* * *

 

“Douglas?” They had scrambled into Martin’s van and were driving to the airfield, as fast as the old vehicle would allow.

 

“Yes?” Douglas looked over, and Martin felt his heart stumble for a second.

 

“I can’t live with you.” The van gave an angry cough as Martin accelerated on the bypass – worryingly, something it had been doing more and more lately. It momentarily distracted Martin from what he’d just said, but Douglas was not to be shaken off so easily.

 

“Why not?” His tone was level, but Martin could detect the whisper of hurt that ran through the words.

 

“Because…” Martin drew an anxious hand over his hair. “Because – God, it’s not because I don’t feel enough for you. Or because I don’t love you. I do – you know I do, yes?” He glanced over anxiously, reassured by Douglas’ nod. “It’s just –“

 

“Too soon?” Douglas guessed.

 

“No – not that – it’s… I can’t afford it. The way you live – well, you know what my situation is.”

 

Douglas laughed, seeming surprised. “But – Martin – I wasn’t expecting you to contribute anything, financially.”

 

Martin’s hands tightened round the steering wheel. “You thought I’d be pleased to come in and sponge off you, did you?”

 

Douglas abruptly stopped chuckling. “No. Of course I didn’t think – Martin. It wouldn’t be sponging.”

 

“That’s how it would feel.” Martin tried not to get angry. It was simple for Douglas, naturally it was. He’d probably not had to worry about cash since college. Martin, on the other hand…

 

“But…” Douglas seemed bewildered. “I don’t want something as base as money to get in the way of things… progressing.” He reached over to grip Martin’s thigh. “I meant all I said, in bed. I want you in my life, always. Not just the nights we can snatch between trips and your van jobs.”

 

Martin softened a little. “That’s very… sweet of you.” He rested his hand on Douglas’. “I just… I need to know I’m contributing.”

 

Douglas interrupted – “But –“ but Martin held up a palm to stop him.

 

“I’m really touched that you hadn’t even thought about me paying my way. However… it might be really easy for you to give, but it’s not so easy for me to know I’m taking.” Martin paused, and chanced a look sideways, knowing he’d find Douglas’ eyes on him. “Can you understand that?”

 

Douglas looked thoughtful, something Martin couldn't read flickering behind the expression. Still, the first officer eventually nodded. “I’ve never known anyone as stubborn as you.”

 

“Come on.” Martin risked a grin. “You love me for it.”

 

Douglas smiled back. “I do. God help me – I do.”

 

The rest of the drive was spent in companionable silence, each pilot lost in their own thoughts, and Douglas’ hand still resting warmly on Martin’s leg.

 

* * *

 

“Martin?” Martin’s head whipped up, afraid that Carolyn was about to revisit her tantrum of the morning – she’d barked at Douglas and him for a good ten minutes about their lateness, even though they were only spending the day on standby for Goddard, yet again. Martin’s favourite part had been when she’d accused Douglas of being a bad influence on his captain, and Douglas had simply smirked in her face. Carolyn had eventually stormed off into her office and he and Douglas had spent a very peaceful three hours since with Arthur, playing another of Douglas’ word games (today it was geographical locations involving body parts; Douglas had currently got them stumped with Nosy Be island, off Madagascar).

 

Martin aborted his pondering on geography to stare round at Carolyn in trepidation. “Yes?”

 

She jerked her head back into the small room, but Martin could still hear her as she called “Phone for you.”

 

“For me?” Martin was bewildered. He wasn’t expecting any calls.

 

“Yes. Come _on_.”

 

Martin shot a perplexed look at Douglas, who shrugged. He got up and wandered into Carolyn’s tiny office, where she was waggling the handset at him, almost fully concealed behind a towering mountain of paper on her desk. Martin frowned. It looked like all the invoices MJN had ever issued in its decade of existence – but why would she have all those out?

 

Still pondering the invoice mystery, he absently took the phone from Carolyn’s outstretched hand. She buried her head in the company accounts book once again, but the sound of the Latvian voice greeting him down the line fixed his attention instantly on the call. “Juris?”

 

“Martin!” Juris repeated. “At last. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for an hour.”

 

“S-sorry,” Martin stammered. “My mobile – it’s –“ He suddenly realized he had left it by his bed, after the shock of Douglas’ question that morning. “Never mind. Is everything -?”

 

“The sentencing – it’s finally been announced.”

 

Martin felt cold all over. “And?” He listened hard, his knuckles white round the phone.

 

* * *

 

Martin walked quickly out of Carolyn’s office without looking back at her, without even replacing the handset back in its cradle. Douglas and Arthur were already standing up – of course, he’d not troubled to shut Carolyn’s door – they’d have heard his side of the brief conversation; not that they’d have got much from it, of course…

 

He sank into his chair, noticing blankly that his hands were trembling. A long silence drew out as his thoughts swirled round. He knew the others were staring at him – even Carolyn had followed him out of the small room – but something was stopping him speaking.

 

Douglas knelt next to him and Martin felt the first officer clasp his hands round his clenched fists. “Martin?” He forced himself to look up, to meet Douglas’ nervous eyes. “What’s happened?”

 

“That was Juris.”

 

Carolyn exploded into speech, staccato words flying jerkily from her. “We _know_ that. What did he say?! What was -”

 

Douglas had raised a placating hand and glared fiercely at her. Amazingly, she lapsed into silence – never before could Martin remember Douglas actually cowing her just with a look. He cleared his throat. “The sentencing’s happened.”

 

“And?” Arthur sounded strange – nervous – Martin hadn’t imagined anxiety would be something Arthur could feel…

 

“Eight years. Each.” The words seemed to be coming from a long way away – it couldn’t be real – they couldn’t be gone… and yet… they were.

 

“Eight years?” Douglas’ tones had the beginnings of triumph within them. “The maximum sentence?”

 

Martin nodded, wordlessly.

 

“Brilliant!” Arthur flung his arms round his mum, Carolyn emitting a tiny ‘ _oof’_ of breath as she was enveloped in her son’s ferocious hug. Despite being completely encased by Arthur, she managed to choke out a few words.

 

“That’s fantastic, Martin – we’re so pleased for you – _erk!_ “ Arthur had swung her round and stolen her composure utterly. “Arthur!”

 

“Sorry, Mum!” Arthur deposited her back on the floor, beaming hugely. Seeing his delight, Martin allowed a tentative smile to flicker across his face, everything still feeling distant and abstract.

 

“Was there anything else?” Douglas’ soft voice drew him back. Almost unconsciously, Martin stroked his partner’s cheek, forgetting his usual reserved professionalism at work. He nodded. “What is it?” Douglas asked.

 

“Well…” Martin wasn’t sure whether to say it or not. “I get… compensation.”

 

Douglas didn’t speak, just motioned him to go on with a jerk of his head.

 

Martin drew an unsteady breath. “It’s awarded in lats – you know, the Latvian currency…” Douglas gave an impatient nod. “But – well – Juris says it works out to be about… £15,000.” He nervously shot a glance at Arthur and Carolyn.

 

Arthur’s mouth fell open. “But that’s FANTASTIC, Skip!” He did a little jig on the spot. “You must be so happy!”

 

Martin stared at him, incredulously. “Well, I’m not.”

 

“Don’t be silly.” Carolyn’s voice, a moment ago so shaky with relief, had returned to its usual shrewish tones.

 

“You wanted more?” Arthur seemed completely bewildered.

 

“No!” Martin nearly shouted. “Oh, never mind. You wouldn’t understand.” He stood up, dislodging Douglas’ clutch abruptly. “Leave me alone.” He went to stride out, but as one, his three colleagues moved in front of him, forming a solid wall preventing his exit. He groaned. “Please. Get out of the way.”

 

They all shook their heads, and Douglas spoke. “No, Martin.” He ushered the captain back towards his chair and sat him down, Martin going reluctantly. “Now then. Arthur is going to make us all a hot drink.” Arthur sprang for the kettle. “And then –“ Douglas stroked his shoulder, reassuringly. “- then, we are going to talk about this with you. OK?”

 

Martin sighed. And nodded.

 

* * *

 

A few minutes later, the four of them sat round the portacabin, each cradling steaming mugs of tea. Martin stared dolefully into his as if it might somehow hold the explanation he was searching for, but the cup failed to yield inspiration.

 

“Well?” Douglas’ question broke the silence.

 

Martin sighed. “I don’t know how to make you understand.” He clutched the mugful more tightly. “I don’t want to take that money.”

 

“Why not, Skip?” Arthur often sounded confused, but rarely _this_ confused.

 

Martin gave a grunt of frustration. “It feels like – it feels like –“ He took a sip, trying to order his whirling thoughts. “It feels as if… the courts think that’ll make everything OK. Like if I take it, _they –_ the… perpetrators - don’t have to feel guilty any more.” He heard his voice tremble, on the edge of tears, and hated himself for it. “It’ll feel like – like – like a _fee_. For that… video.”

 

“Oh.” Carolyn’s voice was unexpectedly soft with understanding. “I see.”

 

“What?” Douglas sounded disbelieving. “You don’t agree with him.”

 

The flat contradiction stung at the captain. “Well, of course _you’d_ want me to take the money.” The accusation was more vicious than he’d intended, and a flash of hurt flew over Douglas’ features. He glared at Martin.

 

“What do you mean by that?”

 

“Sorry.” Martin met his eyes. “Sorry.” He meant it. Despite Douglas’ eye for a deal, Martin didn’t truly suspect that he had any ulterior motive in this instance, even given the refusal Martin had dealt him just a few hours before.

 

Douglas accepted the apology with a brusque twitch of his chin. Ignoring the Knapp-Shappeys’ presence, Martin kissed his hand in contrition before he continued trying hesitatingly to explain. “It’s just that… that video is still the part I find most difficult to stomach. The rest of it… what actually happened…” He blushed, embarrassed. “I can deal with it – I’m making progress.” Douglas made a noise of agreement, encouraging Martin to keep going. “It’s the idea that this was done to me at least partly for profit. To… to _titillate_ other people. And if I take their money… what if I’m profiting from the other people they filmed? From the film they made of _me_?” His voice was filled with fear.

 

“The three of them had other jobs too, Martin. Legitimate earnings.” Carolyn sounded as if she was trying to be reasonable.

 

Martin shook his head, but Douglas spoke up. “The court will already have stripped them of any cash they suspect them of making illegally, Martin. You won’t be getting any money that’s come from… that footage.”

 

Martin groaned. “I suppose so… I just – I just – I don’t want to take _anything_ from them. Anything that makes them feel like we’re… quits.” He choked on the word, revulsion making him nauseous.

 

Arthur spoke up. “But… Skip – I expect I’m being stupid – but –“ He paused, seemingly trying to order his ideas. “But isn’t that money to try and help to pay for the – the damage? To you? Like all those flights you had to make back to Riga?”

 

“And the therapy,” Douglas chipped in.

 

“And the time off work, and lost earnings…” Carolyn had the grace to look deeply guilty at the word ‘earnings.’

 

Martin shrugged. “I suppose.”

 

Douglas patted his knee. “Then it’s not a fee for the film, is it?” he asked gently.

 

Martin thought for a few seconds. He did feel a little better, the hot mug warming his hands comfortingly. “I – I guess…” His voice was uncertain.

 

“It’s not,” Carolyn said, firmly.

 

“Definitely not,” Arthur echoed. “No one would see it like that.”

 

“And if those _animals_ ever think they don’t have to feel guilty for what they did… no matter what the prison sentence, or the compensation…” Douglas trailed off, seemingly unable to even voice the exact threat so evident in his tones.

 

Martin looked up, gazed suspiciously into each of their faces, searching for any sign of insincerity. He could find none. “OK.” His shoulders dropped, resigned. “I – I’ll tell Juris where to send the cheque.” His gut still twisted a little at the thought, but the knowledge that he was there, surrounded by his friends – with his Douglas – who all thought that he deserved the cash… It didn’t seem like the unjustifiable benefit it had done half an hour before, somehow. “Thanks.”

 

Douglas clasped his knee warmly just as the phone rang, causing Martin to tense up once more, anticipating it to be someone calling from Latvia for him again. Carolyn went to answer it, exchanging a few quick words before re-emerging from her office. “Goddard’s on his way. Chop chop.”

 

 _Thank goodness for that_. Martin let out a sigh of relief. _Not Juris_.

 

Business as usual resumed, flight plans being filed and the cabin being prepared for departure. But Martin caught Douglas stealing sidelong glances at him from time to time, and his heart sank. _I’ll have to talk to him_ …

 

* * *

 

“Post-take off checks complete.”

 

“Thank you, Douglas.”

 

Douglas leant back, watching Martin operate. Martin cast him a quick grin – the wind was calm, the flight was short-haul, clear skies expected – his favourite type of trip to pilot. Even knowing what he’d have to say to Douglas. He opened his mouth to speak, but Douglas got there first.

 

“Do you want to continue with the geography-body-parts game?” The first officer looked over, smiling gently. “Or do you want to tell me what’s still troubling you?”

 

Martin blinked. Douglas knew him so well. “Um – well… Can I talk to you about… the second thing?”

 

“Of course.” Douglas knew better than to touch him while he was flying, but he nodded reassuringly, his eyes flicking warmly over Martin’s face.

 

“It’s what we discussed this morning.” Martin stared fixedly out of GERTI’s windshield, finding it a little easier not to look at Douglas just then.

 

“You want to change your mind?” Douglas sounded hopeful, but at the silence from Martin, he sighed. “Ignore me. That’s just my optimism talking.”

 

“The opposite, I’m afraid.” Martin sat back in his chair, glanced at Douglas very seriously. “I… I want to live with you, Douglas – please believe that.” He sighed. “I just… the way things are at the moment, I couldn’t share your house with you and not feel like we’re not in balance. It would be too much like how I felt a month ago: as if I’m just taking from you and not giving enough in return. I can’t exist like that. I’m sorry…”

 

“I understand.” Douglas’ voice was troubled.

 

Martin rushed on. “And then – this compensation, this morning… I’m sorry I snapped at you, back in the office. The timing… it was like some cruel joke – the universe speedily answering my wish for cash, but in a deeply twisted way.” His mouth curled into a moue of discontent. “I’ll take the money. But… it’s finite. I can’t live with you and just gradually siphon that payoff over to you in contributions to our living costs – because eventually, it’ll run out. And then I’ll be back to where I began.” He cast an apologetic glance over at Douglas. “That was why I was huffy with you – I was sure you’d see that phone call as magically solving the problem, and it doesn’t. It _doesn’t_.” Martin hissed the words vehemently, his voice shaking.

 

“Shh, shh,” Douglas soothed, daring for once on the flight deck to lean over and pat his shoulder quickly. “I know.”

 

Martin was reassured. “I need to do something sensible with the 15 grand. Like buy a new van. Dad’s is on its way to giving up completely, I know it is. I need to be ready for that to happen.” A surge of unhappiness flowed through him, and he let out a deep breath of resigned air. “It’s not as if Carolyn will _ever_ be able to pay me, and I can’t be a man with a van _without_ a van.”

 

“Impeccable logic.” Martin was amazed to see Douglas smiling.

 

“Didn’t you understand what I said?” Martin was bewildered. “I don’t see… how I can ever afford to live with you.” He was amazed by just how desolate stating it out loud made him feel. He hadn’t realized just how much he yearned to say yes, until he had to say such a definitive no…

 

“Martin, it’s OK.” Douglas’ smile held, and Martin’s heart lurched with affection even in the midst of his sadness. _He’s so… beautiful_.

 

Douglas carried on. “You’ve got something wrong.”

 

“What?” Martin hastily made a minor course correction to GERTI, his brain whirring over how he could possibly have miscalculated.

 

“Not navigationally!” Douglas laughed, and set the plane back to her original heading. “It’s Carolyn.”

 

“What about her?”

 

“You said she can’t afford to pay you.”

 

“You know she can’t.” Martin frowned. “She says so, and I trust her not to lie. You’re not saying she’s been misleading me –“

 

“No, no.” Douglas held his hands up. “She really can’t afford to – not now. But –“ he beamed – “There’s a way she could.”

 

“Go on.” Martin was intrigued.

 

“I haven’t been sure whether to tell you this… it’s a bit of a long story.” Douglas was enjoying demonstrating his superior knowledge, as usual, despite the hint of uncertainty in his voice.

 

“We have time.” Martin nudged him with his foot.

 

“OK.” Douglas settled back in his chair comfortably, steepling his fingers in his lap. “It all started three months ago – while you were in Riga, and Herc was standing in for you pretty much full time. He kept staying late, after all the rest of us had left. I mean, for a while, I just suspected that he was meeting Carolyn after-hours and -” His eyebrow quirked. “Well, let’s not trouble our imaginations any further with  _that_ line of thinking.”

 

“Let’s not.” Martin gave an involuntary shudder.

 

“Quite. Anyway – I got curious, in spite of myself. One evening, I stayed behind too. I found him – in Carolyn’s office.”

 

“He was… stealing?” Martin couldn’t imagine it.

 

“No!” Douglas shook his head. “Arthur was right, you know. You’re definitely _not_ Miss Marple.”

 

Martin snickered briefly at the memory. “So, what was he doing?”

 

“He was going through all of MJN’s invoices. Through every account book. Looking at every loan, every remortgage. Trying to figure out how to get MJN on an even keel.”

 

“Whew. So _that’s_ why all the bills are out on Carolyn’s desk.” Martin let out a surprised huff. “Must have taken hours.”

 

“Try _days_.”

 

“And Carolyn had no idea?”

 

“Nope, not at the time.” Douglas snorted. “The silly sap was doing it as a present for her.”

 

“And what did he conclude? Or wasn’t he ready to share his findings?” Martin was keenly interested.

 

“Oh, he was delighted to have something to crow to me about.” Disdain dripped in Douglas’ tones. “He had reached a very interesting conclusion.”

 

“Which was?” Martin probed. Douglas hesitated, and the captain groaned in frustration. “Stop all the dramatic pausing. Just tell me!”

 

Douglas laughed affectionately. “Oh, alright then.” His eyes sparkled. “Herc discovered that the reason MJN is still losing money is purely down to the burden of debt that Carolyn’s saddled with.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, she made a _lot_ of mistakes in the early days of the company –“

 

“I _do_ hope I’m in the room when Herc tries to tell her that,” Martin interrupted, amusedly.

 

“Ha. Afraid you’ve missed your chance – he’s told her now what he found out. But, as I was saying, she made initial errors of financial management - and business was much slower then, of course. Still, over the last five or six years, things have been much, much better. MJN steadily earns these days, enough to pay for GERTI and for two pilots – if it weren’t for the fact that Carolyn is still trying to pay off early loans that still run to somewhere in the region of £100,000.”

 

“Wow,” Martin whistled through his teeth. “That’s a big debt.” He frowned. “I don’t see how that helps us.”

 

“Herc couldn’t either.” Douglas gave his sharkiest grin. “But that’s where I come in. You see, I’d been spending some time on investigations of my own. Every time you were off in your van, the last few months, I gave myself an extra job to do too.” He paused before continuing. “I don’t know if you remember what I said a month ago – about how I had some ideas about how to repay Gordon Shappey?” Douglas spat the hated name as if it were poisonous.

 

Martin stared at him, feeling as though his stomach had plummeted through GERTI’s floor to the ground below. “G-Gordon?”

 

Douglas nodded, grimly. “I’ve been following his activities with some… interest, you might say.”

 

“Since when?”

 

“When do you think?” Douglas clenched his fists, rage evident in his expression.

 

“Douglas… I –“ Martin wasn’t sure how he felt. “You don’t have to. Just because he humiliated me.”

 

Douglas shook his head. “No, darling." Martin blushed at the endearment. "I hate him for that, of course. But it’s more. He used you to get at me. He devastated Arthur and Carolyn. And – if you’d seen that email, all those months ago… He said he was _amused_ by what they did to you.” His nose wrinkled in distaste.

 

“We know what he’s like.” Martin was worried. “You can’t let him get to you. Don’t let him win, _please_.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Douglas fixed Martin with his fiercest expression. “I just – I had to know how far this went. It all seemed too _convenient_ that Gordon just stumbled across that video.”

 

Icy fingers wrapped themselves round Martin’s heart. His breathing sped into rapid gulps. “What are you saying?” He tried desperately not to hyperventilate. “Douglas – please – how’s he involved? Did he – did he arrange -“

 

Douglas registered his distress. “No, no – that was what I suspected. But I don’t think he went that far – at least, I can’t prove it. I’ve asked Boris, and he says it really was a coincidence that Leo was on duty that night – that he was sent to you and not another plane that was also waiting for an engineer.”

 

Martin felt sick. Chance. If things had gone the other way, in that moment – _No_. He couldn’t think like that, he’d go mad. He focused on Douglas’ theory instead. “So what’s the connection? What have you found? It must be something.”

 

Douglas’ mouth formed a grim, satisfied line. “I looked into Gordon’s business dealings. It’s easy enough, if you go to Companies House in London and you’re sufficiently dogged.” He looked straight at Martin. “ _Mr_ Shappey owns that website. The one that hosted the video.”

 

“He – _what_?” Martin was staggered.

 

“He’s got quite the little empire that he’s building up in Eastern Europe. His holdings included that website, purporting to be legal – except that it’s illegal to own, watch or distribute footage of rape in the UK.”

 

“But he didn’t distribute it here. Herc said the website was in Russian.” Martin didn’t understand what Douglas was getting at.

 

“Oh? Then how would you describe sending it to me?” Douglas looked triumphant.

 

“Oh. _Oh_.” Martin’s brain span furiously.

 

“In his haste to crow at me, he acted rather foolishly – he’s given me something in writing that the police would be very interested in. That’s something else that makes me suspect he didn’t plan this from the beginning, incidentally – he’d have thought the whole thing through better if he had. That email smacked of a petty, vengeful bastard seizing at a sudden opportunity all in a rush.”

 

Martin wasn’t convinced. “Won’t he just protest his innocence? Like all the other people who watched it? He could say there was nothing at the time that proved it was rape, after all.”

 

“He could…” Douglas mulled for a second. “But he is rather heavily involved – or was. He owned that site, after all. The site that hosted all those films. Not all of them made at Riga airport, but I bet a fair number were. Rather tellingly, he sold the site as soon as he realized you’d gone to the police. The day after those three were arrested, in fact.”

 

“He did?”

 

“Yes.” Douglas bared his teeth for a second, cold fury radiating from him. “And _fascinatingly_ , he sold another of his companies the very same day – a veterinary supplies outfit which had been importing and exporting out of several Eastern European countries.”

 

“So?”

 

“So _everything_ , Martin.” Douglas’ triumphant attitude was obvious, now. “ _Ketamine_. I’ll bet, if the police in Latvia were to examine the rosters of those shipments, they’ll discover a significant imbalance in the amount of supposedly veterinary ketamine that was brought in as compared to what was sold legitimately…”

 

“ _Gordon_? Gordon is behind the ketamine smuggling?” Martin couldn’t believe it. “Why haven’t you gone to the police?”

 

Douglas’ mouth twisted. “I have no… firm proof.”

 

Martin sighed. “Then the information’s useless.”

 

Douglas’ eyebrows flew up. “You wound me, _mon capitaine_.” He smiled. “Information is never useless. You just have to find the right moment to use it.”

 

“The right moment being…?”

 

“Well, I’ve been biding my time. Watching the financial section of the newspapers for quite a while, now. Keeping an eye on the other pies Mr Shappey has fingers in.” He gave a satisfied smirk. “And today, Gordon’s on the verge of one of the biggest deals of his life.”

 

“He is?” Martin watched Douglas, wide-eyed. Even the noise of GERTI’s engines seemed to have faded, so focused was he on his FO.

 

“Yep. Of course, his rather shadier dealings are just one part of his empire. I think your involving the law rather shook him. Since he sold those two companies, I can’t find anything else obviously wrong…” Douglas frowned his dissatisfaction. “Mainly, he builds up businesses through attracting investments and then selling them on – that’s how he’s made all of his pots of money.”

 

“I know, Carolyn said, once.”

 

“Right – well, I made a rather intriguing discovery. Since the recession hit, he’s only managed to keep attracting investments from one major source.”

 

“Who?”

 

Douglas grinned. “Well, they seem lovely - genuinely. It’s a panel of ethical investors. They all club together, these saintly profit-seeking souls, and pledge cash to causes and industries that are morally praiseworthy – or at worst, neutral.”

 

“So no oil, no tobacco, no conflict diamonds…?” Martin had vaguely read about similar schemes.

 

“Exactly.” Douglas looked deeply satisfied. “And Gordon is this afternoon hoping for them to sign off a cool £50 million to help him buy a huge Russian conglomerate.” He looked at Martin expectantly.

 

Martin was blank. “So? I don’t understand.” Like an automaton, he started GERTI’s descent into Edinburgh, concentrating hard on Douglas’ face rather than the instrument panel.

 

“So – I don’t think they’d be so keen to work with a man with proven links to drug smuggling and violent, non-consensual pornography, do you?”

 

“Oh!” Martin thought for a minute. “But you said you couldn’t prove anything.”

 

“I can’t.” Yet Douglas beamed. “But if I can make Gordon _think_ that I can… then we’ve got him just where we want him.”

 

“Which is where, exactly?”

 

“In a position to pay off MJN’s debts. In return for a promise from me that I’ll hand over that incriminating proof I tell him I’ve got that would so greatly interest the police - the original email from him - and he gets an assurance that we’ll never trouble his business dealings again.”

 

“Douglas…” Martin wasn’t sure how to react. “He’s dangerous.”

 

“No.” Douglas shook his head. “He’s pathetic. A coward. You saw that in St Petersburg. He uses his minions to make his money and he tramples all over anyone who gets in his way.” Douglas grasped Martin’s knee. “If I had solid evidence, I’d hand it to the police and see him jailed without a second thought.” Martin realized with a shock that Douglas’ eyes were shining with tears. “He hurt us both, terribly. He can at least repay MJN in some way – by setting Carolyn free of her debts. So she can pay my captain the salary he deserves, in future.” Douglas sniffed angrily, and held his head higher. “And at least this way Arthur won’t have a father who’s a public disgrace.”

 

Martin gripped Douglas’ hand. “And you?”

 

“And I get to see the smug expression wiped off his face by not letting him have the last word with that email.”

 

“If it all goes to plan…” Martin felt a twist of nerves ball in his stomach.

 

“It will. We’ve thought of everything.”

 

“It will? You mean – you’re already doing this?” Douglas’ words replayed in his head. _Gordon has a big deal… today._ Martin gasped just as his co-pilot’s phone beeped - they had obviously dropped low enough in their descent for signal to re-establish itself. The sound distracted the captain. “Douglas! You’re supposed to have that in flight mode!” Martin’s words were indignant as he lined the plane up for her final approach.

 

“Whoops.” Douglas’ grinned unrepentantly as he read the text. His broad smile widened further.

 

“Who’s it from?”

 

“Herc.”

 

“Herc’s texting _you_?”

 

“But of course. You don’t think that Gordon would allow _me_ into his office, do you?”

 

“You mean Herc’s been with him? _Now?_ Does Carolyn know?”

 

“Of course she does. Herc’s participation in this was conditional on her agreement.” Douglas’ grin was extremely self-satisfied. “I’m not the only one who wants revenge on Gordon for hurting us, you know.”

 

Martin felt blindsided with confusion. “So – Herc –“

 

“Herc met him this morning. Laid our cards on the table. Why do you think Carolyn was so twitchy today?” Douglas chuckled, then gave a nod of satisfaction. “It seems Gordon preferred not to gamble that we had proof that might derail such a _sizeable_ deal for him. The prospect of losing £50 million was obviously enough to buy out his pride.” He held out the phone so Martin could see the message he’d received.

 

Two pictures were displayed – the first appearing to be an email inbox – Douglas’ company account, at a guess: Martin recognized the layout. ‘One message deleted’ was flashing across the screen – that must be the email Gordon had sent Douglas originally, Martin realized. The second image was showing the online banking for Shappey Enterprises Ltd. Even on the small screen, Martin could read the words – that day’s date - and £100,000 transferred… to MJN Air. And Herc had included just one line of text with the photos himself.

 

' _SUCCESS_.'

 

Martin froze in stupefaction just as the cockpit door was flung open. Carolyn burst in, addressing Douglas rapidly. “Have you heard -?”

 

Wordlessly, beaming, Douglas held out the phone to her. She absorbed the images, a fierce grin spreading across her face, before holding out her own mobile. “I’ve just had this.” She showed Douglas.

 

“Has _no one_ had their phones off today? CAA regulations are very clear, you know-” Martin’s squawk of protest was utterly ignored by the pair of them. “Hello? Are you listening?”

 

“Martin – look.” Douglas shoved Carolyn’s phone at him. A text, from Gordon. It simply read:

 

_'Honours even. That’s enough.'_

 

“He means – that’s the end?” Martin didn’t dare believe it.

 

“I think so.” Carolyn nodded, grimly. “That’s the last of it. No more feuding.”

 

“Strap in, we’re landing.” Douglas gestured her to the jump seat as Martin brought them in to runway 06.

 

Martin’s brain was whirling. _The end_. _It’s over?_

 

GERTI’s wheels brushed softly on to tarmac. It was strange. He knew they’d landed, after all. It was just that, suddenly – his soul was flying.


	25. Epilogue

It took Martin several days to process everything that had occurred. He found himself most at ease in taking lots of long walks with Douglas, often in comfortable silence. The two of them strolled for miles, enjoying the spring air hand in hand. Martin stopped noticing time slipping by – days blurred into one, such was the increasingly contented haze he was in.

 

The day Carolyn gave him his first pay cheque, though – that was special. She handed it to him with a priggish sniff that said clearly 'I will not be discussing this' and Martin knew not to utter a word of thanks. Arthur beamed at him across the portacabin, and Martin returned his ecstatic grin without commenting.

 

Instead, he took Douglas out for dinner that night, booking a table at the first officer's favourite restaurant – an authentically Japanese establishment. Martin discovered there that the best part about chopsticks was that they left them a hand free each… for whatever purposes they could come up with. He relished the feel of Douglas stroking light fingers up his thigh under the table, before returning the caresses – mainly for the joy of hearing Douglas’ velvet voice falter in pleasured surprise at the contact.

 

Over dessert – dorayaki pancakes, smothered in raspberry sauce – Martin spoke up at last, meeting Douglas’ eyes as the first officer gazed warmly across the table at him.

 

“Live with me.”

 

It was Douglas’ turn to blink in amazement. “What did you say?”

 

Martin twitched a smile, enjoying Douglas’ startled expression. “Live with me, Douglas. Or rather – let me live with you?”

 

Douglas’ delighted laugh resounded brightly in Martin’s ears. “Of course I will.” He took Martin’s hand, clutched it warmly. “How soon can you move?”

 

“Next weekend?” Martin beamed, gladness radiating through him.

 

“Perfect.”

 

* * *

 

“Phew.” Martin stood up, wiping his brow. He kicked the cardboard box against the wall and dusted his hands together. “That’s the last of it.”

 

Douglas grinned. “Welcome home.” He tugged Martin into a hug.

 

“I’m all sweaty!” Martin wriggled free, laughing.

 

“Come and have a shower, then.” Douglas waggled his eyebrows devilishly.

 

“Are you propositioning me?” Martin asked, taking mock-offence, his eyes dancing with mischief.

 

“Depends.” Douglas grinned. “Are you willing to be propositioned?”

 

Martin gulped. Even this many months into their relationship, Douglas’ attentions still had the ability to take his breath away. “Yes.”

 

“Come on. Upstairs with you.” Douglas gave him a playful shove. The two of them tumbled up the stairs, shedding shoes as they went. Martin automatically made for the guest bathroom, until Douglas tugged him back. “Hey. You can use the shower in _our_ bedroom, you know.”

 

Martin gaped momentarily, then turned round. “Of course.” He followed Douglas into the room and gazed at it for a second. “Our bedroom,” he whispered, not meaning Douglas to hear – though he did anyway.

 

“Ours.” Douglas stepped back to his side and kissed him thoroughly. Martin responded, curving tight into Douglas’ embrace, thrilling to the feel of their two bodies swaying gently together. At last, he broke away. “This isn’t really helping me get _less_ hot and bothered, though,” he sniggered. Douglas whined a complaint, seeking his mouth once more, but Martin just laughed again. “Douglas. This way.” He shoved Douglas before him into the ensuite, taking charge.

 

They stripped hastily, clothes kicked heedlessly to all four corners of the bathroom. Douglas flicked on the water and stepped through the glass door, baring his throat to the warm spray. It was a double-size cubicle - _typically decadent,_ Martin thought, as he followed him in; most things were equally luxurious in Douglas’ – no, _their_ home. Martin hadn’t quite made the mental adjustment yet.

 

Douglas shifted over, making room for him under the jet. Martin bent his head, soaking his hair under the water, before turning in to Douglas’ tall form and cuddling him close. “Hmm.” He let out a sigh of happiness, feeling Douglas’ arms enveloping him and stroking his back.

 

“Your last van job, done.” Douglas smiled against his cheek. “How does it feel?”

 

Martin shook his head. “Can’t quite believe it.”

 

“When’s Simon picking the van up?”

 

“Tomorrow morning.” Martin had decided that it was his brother’s turn to have the ancient vehicle. Basking in the glow of Douglas’ affections lately had obviously made him over-generous, he thought – before deciding he didn’t care.

 

“Have you told your family about us yet?” Douglas reached for the soap and began to lather it gently over Martin’s shoulders.

 

“I told Mum I was moving in with you last week.”

 

“What did she say?”

 

“She was a bit – surprised, I think. But she told me off for not mentioning it before.” Martin turned so Douglas could soap his front. “Have you said anything to Verity?”

 

“Not yet.” Douglas’ hands ran ticklishly over Martin’s arms. “I thought I’d take her out for ice cream with you when she was down next, and we could tell her then.”

 

Martin felt a flicker of nerves. “I hope she’ll like me.”

 

Douglas pressed a kiss to his forehead. “She’ll love you. I do, after all.”

 

Martin smiled. “Here – give me the soap. I’ll do you.” Douglas passed it over, and Martin began to work it over his chest, paying particular attention to his nipples, to Douglas’ amusement.

 

“Not renowned for needing extended soaping, the nipples, captain,” Douglas teased, but his laugh died away as Martin leant in and bit gently at his neck.

 

“Hush. I know what I’m doing.” Martin directed his attentions lower down, moving his hands smoothly through the cleft of Douglas’ arse. Douglas suddenly went very still against him, his breathing quickening with arousal. Martin kissed his collarbone softly, allowing the soap to fall to the shower floor. He moved his hand between them, wrapping it round Douglas’ rapidly hardening cock.

 

“ _Martin_.” Douglas’ voice was a groan of pleasure. He blindly leant forward, catching the captain into a kiss. The water rained down on them unheeded as Martin began to stroke, lost in the sensation of Douglas’ mouth on his.

 

Douglas’ hands reached down, trying to find Martin’s cock to reciprocate, but Martin had other ideas. He softly separated from the other man’s kisses, pausing for a second. Douglas’ eyes burned into his. Martin felt safe, secure – so very loved. _Yes_. This was right.

 

Martin sank to his knees, sliding his hands down Douglas’ sides as he went.

 

Douglas was suddenly gripping his shoulder. “You don’t have to –“

 

Martin cut him off. “I want to. So, so much.” It was true, this time – there was no fear in him anymore. He leaned forward, sucking Douglas’ shaft deep into his mouth, relishing Douglas’ helpless cry of pleasure. Bobbing his head back and forth, he enjoyed discovering the texture, the taste of Douglas’ arousal. Martin released him for a moment, and looked up to meet his partner’s incredulous gaze. “You said you wanted to save this for something happy.” He flicked out his tongue, licked a broad stripe up the length of Douglas’ shaft. Douglas shuddered, and Martin smiled. “Well, I’ve never been this happy in my life.”

 

With that, he leaned back in, engulfing as much of Douglas as he could. Douglas’ hand dug into his shoulder more and more tightly as he sucked and licked, tongue flicking rapidly to tease his frenulum and slit. Douglas was gasping, little choking moans hitching from his chest as Martin worked up and down faster and faster.

 

“Martin – oh my God –“ Douglas’ hand moved to the captain’s dripping hair, stroking the back of his head. Martin couldn’t help it – couldn’t resist – moved his free hand to jerk at his own cock, to ease the tingling tension building at his groin. “Martin, Martin – love – oh God, you’re going to make me come –“

 

Martin drew his head back as far as he could, pressing his tongue firmly into Douglas’ slit, wiggling it. Then in one speedy move, he slid down as far as he could go, till Douglas’ cock bumped the back of his throat.

 

Douglas swore, and like that, he was coming, convulsing so hard Martin worried for a second he was about to fall over. Martin swallowed frantically as Douglas spilled into him, a little still escaping, though the shower washed it away from his chin.

 

At last, Douglas relaxed, releasing his grip on Martin’s hair. Their eyes met as he slipped free of Martin’s mouth, Martin licking him clean with little kitten-laps of his tongue that made Douglas shiver pleasantly.

 

Without a word, he knelt too, water droplets spraying off his shoulders. He pulled Martin into a passionate kiss, seeking out every last taste of himself from Martin’s mouth. His hands found Martin’s round the captain’s steel-hard cock, urging them both into movement. Martin sighed against him, his hips kicking forwards instinctually. Douglas leant up, kissed his hairline, his forehead, his ear. He whispered, tickling Martin’s neck with his breath. “Come on. You now. I want to feel you.”

 

Martin whimpered, overwhelmed by the closeness of Douglas. He allowed his hands to fall away from his erection, let Douglas have full control, instead stroking softly at Douglas’ thighs. Douglas’ movements sped up, inching Martin ever closer to the precipice, delicious bliss crowding in on his senses.

 

“Come for me, beautiful boy... I want you – need you...” Douglas bit lightly at his cheek, soothing the sting with a kiss immediately. “Come on.”

 

With a gasp, Martin did, his body feeling as if it were exploding into a million points of light in Douglas’ arms, shaking upwards to a height he never thought he could reach.

 

Douglas wrung the last shuddering pulses from him gently, and Martin leant heavily into him, feeling himself tugged round so Douglas could encircle him from behind. He sagged backwards into his lover’s broad chest with a sigh, relishing the warmth and security that came from being enveloped in this glorious, gorgeous, adoring man.

 

“You said you were happy.” Douglas’ voice broke the silence, quietly.

 

Martin let out a relaxed breath. “More than I’ve ever been.”

 

Douglas’ arms tightened around him. “Me too.” He kissed the top of Martin’s head, inhaling deeply.

 

The shower sprayed on above, jetting warm water, as the two of them half-sat, half-lay in the peace of the cubicle. It was as if it were just the two of them left in the world – their own happy, calm world. Martin stroked Douglas’ hands where they lay over his chest, resting his head on Douglas’ shoulder with a sigh. He was content. All was well.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading and commenting - the comments have all been so much appreciated and kept me writing. It's a good job I didn't know when I started this that I was effectively setting out to write something the length of a novel - I'm sorry it's taken me longer than anticipated!
> 
> The big pause this time was partly because I wanted to go back to the start and redraft each chapter to improve it - in case anyone fancied rereading this monster all in one go, I wanted it to be as good as it can be. That's finally done and I shall put it down and step away with a happy-very-nervous-authorly sigh of relief. 
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed it - thanks again for following along, all of you :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked the fic - I now have Tumblr, which I'm trying not to tie myself in perplexed knots with. Feel free to pop in at jay-eagle.tumblr.com :)


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